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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936517">The One With the Prom Video</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/camerasparring/pseuds/camerasparring'>camerasparring</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst and Fluff and Smut, First Time, Friends AU, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mentions of Richie/OMC, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Minor Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris, Rimming, Rom Com-ish Tropes, The Gang Is 20's, They're Lobsters, basically the gang watches their prom video and Richie gets into a box</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:07:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,309</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/camerasparring/pseuds/camerasparring</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie yanks the VHS out of the box from Richie's mom. The stretched, yellowing piece of tape along the side reads “Prom 1994,” and when a cold, unadulterated shiver goes through Eddie’s body at the sight of the words, at the flood of memories that overflows him, he shoves it straight back under the loudly patterned t-shirt on top. Unfortunately, Bev sees him, and snatches the tape back. </p><p>“Oh my god,” she says, pressing the tape flat under her nail, “is this really our prom video?” </p><p>-</p><p>Or: The Losers watch their prom video, Richie gets a time-out, and Eddie has a lot of feelings about his guest closet.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>491</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The One With the Prom Video</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the beginning of a Friends AU Collection that me and some lovely people are starting. Thank you to those people, my beloved Horse Cock Rights GC. </p><p>Yes, I yanked a lot of Friends ideas. No, you do not have to have seen any of the show to understand the fic. :D</p><p>Warnings for: mentions of menstruation, 90's fashion, slight leaning into Bottom Eddie, the mentions of the death of Eddie's mother and Eddie using cleaning to escape his feelings.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie stares down at the full counter of food stuffs and does some mental math. </p><p>He’s got all the frozen items, a few cans of soup, two bags of cheese. He has eggs, mayo, sugar, the loaf of french bread, the pasta Bev indicated she might need extras of (she shrugged when he asked). He’s got a pie in the oven to pick up later and a wind-up timer he’s bringing along to make sure he doesn’t forget. He’s got two bottles of wine (white for him, red for Richie) and Richie’s special handkerchief to avoid what he calls “wine mouth.” Eddie calls it “not knowing how to correctly drink out of your human mouth.” </p><p>The music emanating from the small radio in the corner kicks into something poppy. Eddie taps his foot against the floor as he continues.</p><p>Tums, aspirin, pepto, and two Xanax, just in <em> special case</em>. It’s their second Thanksgiving together as a group since the <em> event </em> (see: divorce), but their first as neighbors, and Eddie knows there won’t be anyone extra there, but he still sometimes gets overwhelmed. One pill and a glass of white and he’s good to go. Probably shouldn’t combine them, but that’s his business. </p><p>He frowns over at the empty spot where the coffee pot should be, then over at his equally drained cup from Ben and Bev’s this morning.</p><p>Richie broke their pot almost three weeks ago with the inception of Fire Ball, a half-assed (and dumb-assed) game of his own invention involving oven mitts and whiffle balls and obviously, fire, and Eddie had grumbled for a week before finally agreeing to play. </p><p>Turns out, it isn’t as bad as it sounds. Eddie tells himself he enjoys the camaraderie and the familiarity of the intense competition they always loved as kids, playing tee ball in the Tozier’s backyard even though they were several years too old for it. In reality, he enjoys the chance at a smiling, laughing, flushed Richie, his sweaty shirt clinging to him from the fire and the effort, his bare thighs hairy and strong under the short shorts he insists on wearing. But in the end, the power of his thighs was too much, since he shattered the coffee pot after their second game, and Eddie has avoided replacing it ever since. </p><p>Eddie wanted to get a whole new machine, but Richie insisted that was a waste of money. Richie wanted to swipe a pot from one of the floor models at Sears, but Eddie insisted that was illegal. Steeling over to Ben and Bev’s every morning seemed the best compromise. And the best way to keep Richie from revisiting the department store holding cell.</p><p>Besides, Beverly is always up at the crack of dawn. Ben (fancy architect) always buys the <em> full bean </em> stuff, since he and Bev (fancier designer) make more money than Eddie (useless insurance) and Richie (struggling actor) combined. And, coincidentally, visiting them affords Eddie the ability to miss Richie stumbling out of his bedroom, freshly awoken, sometimes clad in nothing but boxers and bedhead. It’s not exactly good for Eddie’s sanity, or dick, to constantly start the day with an eyeful of Richie looking soft and warm and… domestic. </p><p>Eddie’s face heats at the memory of their first morning as roommates, when he traced the line of Richie’s chest hair down below his bellybutton, and zoned out at how desperately he would have loved to trace it with his tongue, too. But the confusingly delightful sight of Richie in the morning is also sometimes combined with a strange man following him into the living room, looking flushed and satisfied.</p><p>This morning, the door was still closed when Eddie got back, so apparently Richie has elected to sleep in later than usual. At least now Eddie knows Bev and Ben don’t need any last minutes supplies, like napkins. </p><p>He makes another mental note to get his grand-mother’s ceramic turkey napkin holder from the top cabinet before they leave.</p><p>Just as he’s sweeping some items into his to-go cooler, Richie emerges from the bedroom. </p><p>“Finally,” Eddie sighs, “I was about to come wake you up.”</p><p>Richie’s disheveled and clearly tired, his chunky black glasses hiding all manner of eye-bag sins. Eddie knows they’re there. Just as sure as Richie’s hair hasn’t been brushed in at least a week, Eddie knows he’s concealing the gray half-circles that mean he hasn’t gotten good sleep in about that time either, even if he won’t admit it. </p><p>Eddie knows Richie goes out almost every night. He used to invite Eddie, too, but that gravy train ended after the seventh or eighth rejection. Eddie hears enough through their shared bedroom wall to know how a night out with Richie would end, anyway. A loud, boisterous club where Richie dances with other guys. Being left in the lurch when Richie finds one to take home. Alone, desperately hard in his own bed, as he listens to Richie pull noises from man after man, never making a peep himself.</p><p>If he did… well. Eddie doesn’t want to think about what he’d do if he heard Richie through the wall. Especially not with Richie pasting on a grin, wiggling his eyebrows in front of him, looking sleepy and delicious and stupidly irresistible yet again.</p><p>“Eddie, baby,” Richie says, and Eddie wants to dissolve into a puddle of goo. “I wouldn’t advise waking me up without notice. We both know I like to sleep au naturale.” </p><p>“The last time I burst in on you in there you were wearing what looked like a Batman onesie, so I’d say it’d be more embarrassing for you than me.”  </p><p>Richie rolls his eyes and stretches his arms above his head, and that’s when Eddie sees his t-shirt. </p><p>“Let’s get…?” Eddie squints, but the font on the bottom word is obstructed by two turkey legs that stretch across Richie’s chest. It’s tight, snug against Richie’s pecs. Eddie glances away as quick as he realizes he can make out their shape. And the curve of Richie’s stomach. And hips. And the dip where his belly-button-</p><p>“Basted!” Richie yells, delighted, moving toward the kitchen to show it off. </p><p>Eddie pauses. </p><p>“Please tell me you’re not bringing weed to this thing.”</p><p>Richie balks. “Eds, it’s a holiday centered around eating as much as possible—”</p><p>“Definitely not what Thanksgiving is about.”</p><p>“— of course I’m bringing weed. I have two joints in my back pocket right now.” </p><p>“Just please don’t smoke it <em> around </em> the food.” He shoves two handheld ice packs into the cooler and zips it closed. “You know it makes me nauseous.” </p><p>Richie yawns and waves him off. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep it to the swanky balcony.” </p><p>“I can’t believe they got first dibs on the bigger place,” Eddie says, the rage fuming through him, even more than a year later. Richie rounds the counter to pat him on the back, and Eddie goes rigid at the touch.</p><p>Richie’s fingers are so long, sweeping gentle across the length of his back and lingering. They trace the bumps in Eddie’s spine, then grip hard around his shoulder as Richie hovers behind him. Eddie feels heat on the skin of his ear as Richie ducks down to whisper. </p><p>“‘Twas nothing but timing, my dear Spaghetti.” </p><p>Eddie grumbles, grabbing for a dish towel to fold to keep his eyes off of Richie’s smarmy morning face. Nothing can stop him from focusing on Richie’s deep morning voice, or the way Richie is still touching him. Not even his residual pettiness about the size of their apartment.</p><p>It’s true, the reason they lost out on the bigger place was because of Eddie’s divorce, but he was taking his damn time. He’d spent most of his twenties married. Straight out of high school. He hadn’t even managed a college roommate, since Myra was insistent they live together. It caused quite the headache with the Dean’s office to forgo their usual “freshmen live in housing” rule, but somehow they made it work. After the death of his mother, and couch surfing at Richie’s and Bill’s for most of his senior year, it felt like the simplest solution. </p><p>But living with Myra was starkly similar to living with his mother; something that took him several years to figure out. Along with some other, uh, things about himself. Even still, he was <em> used </em> to living with Myra. Never alone. Rushing into a cohabitation with a group of his friends so soon after breaking off his marriage seemed like a bad idea. An echo of an already horribly made decision from his youth.</p><p>That didn’t stop him from taking a tour of the building, or helping Ben and Beverly move in across the hall, or allowing Richie into his office with a lease agreement on a sunny Friday afternoon after another contentious call from Myra’s lawyer, and another subsequent call wherein he accidentally cursed out a client. </p><p><em> You need some place to live, and these people are different</em>, Eddie told himself, signing on the multiple dotted lines. </p><p><em> It makes fiscal sense now that Richie is back in New York and you’re paying alimony</em>, Eddie told himself, even though he found a much cheaper place on the East Side that was closer to his office. </p><p><em> You’ll get over the crush</em>, Eddie told himself, watching Richie skip gleeful circles around the office and wondering who the fuck allowed him to be so tall and <em> broad</em>.</p><p><em> Besides, Richie isn’t interested</em>, Eddie told himself, out only to his therapist, to Beverly, to Mike (and probably Stan, though Mike is respectful enough not to tell his husband), and hopelessly in love with a man who would never love him back. </p><p>Richie opens the fridge behind him while Eddie pointedly focuses on the temperature at which the pie is baking. He doesn’t need to see Richie drinking out of the orange juice carton again.</p><p>He also doesn’t need to see the long column of Richie’s neck bob as he swallows. Or think about how easily he could reach over and latch his teeth right into Richie’s skin. Or how he could push Richie into the fridge and kiss him breathless. Or how he jerked off thinking about the way Richie’s boxers softly outlined his cock the previous morning while they ate breakfast together at the kitchen counter. </p><p><em> No</em>, Eddie thinks, re-arranging items on the counter unnecessarily, <em> it’s Thanksgiving</em>. Today is about all of his friends. </p><p>Not Richie. </p><p>Then Richie’s hand falls to the small of Eddie’s back, and it’s like a rod of heat slams through his entire body. </p><p>So much for that. </p><p>“You know, I’m still willing to give up this banger of a shirt if you changed your mind about the matching ones, bud.” </p><p>Eddie finally whips around to look at Richie, who is grinning wide and still holding the orange juice. He’s wearing the same boxers as the other morning, so Eddie keeps his eyeline at Richie’s shoulders. His big, broad—</p><p>“I’m not fucking wearing your infantilizing outfits,” Eddie says, turning back to the counter, where he’s finished his pre-planned tasks three times over, “It’s Thanksgiving, not Halloween.”</p><p>Richie’s mouth pops open audibly, so Eddie rushes to turn on his heel.</p><p>“And <em> no</em>, I’m not wearing it next Halloween either, or to any conventions, or <em> gatherings </em> you find online for sweet potato lovers or whatever the fuck,” Eddie adds, just to cover his bases. </p><p>Richie pouts, but seems to accept his fate for now. Eddie doubts it’ll be the last time they have this argument. Luckily, Richie found the shirts <em> after </em> Halloween this year, but Eddie has a feeling Richie will convince him one day, and then he’ll be marching into a party far too loud and rambunctious and full of far too many people with a shirt saying “I Yam” to Richie’s “He’s my Sweet Potato.” </p><p>The implications fluster Eddie too much to keep up his angry charade about it any longer. Maybe he <em> does </em> want to be Richie’s sweet potato. Okay, maybe not <em> that </em> , because pet names are fucking stupid and Eddie definitely hates when Richie calls him <em> baby </em> as a tease, but now Eddie is considering it as he stares blankly at a stick of butter and he realizes he’s been too quiet for far too long. </p><p>“Uh, we have to be over there in half an hour, if you wanna take a shower or whatever first,” Eddie says, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. Richie has been awake for approximately five minutes and this is already difficult. </p><p>“Actually, I, uh,” Richie starts, but then Eddie hears the creak of the bathroom door open from down the hall. Eddie turns to see Richie frozen in his tracks, eyes wide, mouth gaping open, fucking orange juice carton still in his hand, and it all hits him at once. </p><p>“Um,” Eddie hears from behind him, in an unfamiliar, gruff voice, and turns to see a rather short, brown-haired, button nosed man staring back at him. He’s clearly just showered, dew dripping from the strands of his mussed but slightly gelled hair. He’s in a simple blue shirt and tight jeans and holding one of the towels that Eddie bought for them at Bed, Bath and Beyond last year and a toothbrush Eddie brought home from the dentist a couple months ago and shoved in their “for guests” closet next to the bathroom. </p><p>Stupidly Handsome Fuck Boy was not what Eddie was imagining when he created that closet. </p><p>“Oh, hey,” Richie says, swinging back around the curve of the counter toward the stranger, slamming the orange juice carton amongst Eddie’s to-be-packed items. “I thought maybe you had already left.” </p><p>The guy shakes his head, smiling broadly as Richie’s hand lands on his hip. He leans into Richie, like he’s magnetized to his presence, like he’s desperate to get as close as he can, and fuck, Eddie knows that feeling. But right now he’s seeing red. His eyes and his brain and his limbs and his toes all flow with the magma-hot lava of fucking <em> rage</em>. </p><p>Eddie presses his lips together and turns back to stare at the stove. Tinny music is still playing from the speakers in the corner. </p><p>“Oh, no, I just took a nice, long shower,” the guys says. Fucking <em> great</em>, not like they pay for water or anything. “Didn’t know if you wanted to follow up on your thoughts last n—”</p><p>“Nope!” Richie interrupts loudly. Eddie crosses his arms and tries not to burn the pie with the laser beams of his anger vision. “Nope, nope, as I said <em> last night</em>, Matthew, I have a Thanksgiving party to go to.”</p><p>“Right,” <em> Matthew </em> says, and Eddie hates the stinging satisfaction he feels at the distinct sound of disappointment in his voice, “Well I’m sorry again about the—”</p><p>“<em>Wonderful</em>,” Richie says, high and tight and panicked, pushing at the back of Matthew’s dumb, small, lithe body and leading him toward the door. “Well I guess I will see you around then, man.” </p><p><em> Man </em>.</p><p><em> I wonder if they call each other man while they’re fucking</em>, Eddie thinks, then wipes his mind clean as soon as it’s there. </p><p>
  <em> Don’t think about the fucking, that’ll just— that’s not a good mental pathway. </em>
</p><p>Eddie spends another blank moment staring at the stove until he hears the front door close. Steeling himself, he turns back to his organizational counter and tries not to find Richie’s eyes.</p><p>But Richie finds him. </p><p>“You’re mad, aren’t you?” His eyes are big. Worried, downturned and wide like a fucking puppy, so Eddie clenches his shut. </p><p>“I’m not—” Eddie stops. <em> Don’t lie</em>, he thinks (in his therapist’s voice, but he’s getting there). He does his breathing again. Stares back at the stove, his new best friend. “It’s none of my business what you do with… whoever you want to do it with.”</p><p>Yikes. Just because it’s not a lie doesn’t mean it has to be so fucking honest. </p><p>Richie rubs a line over his mouth and nods. Eddie wonders what he’s not saying. Richie says everything. But he clams up over this. </p><p>It doesn’t stop him from bringing guys home. </p><p>Eddie’s never brought anyone home. Hasn’t ever wanted to. The only person not in their friend group who’s ever seen his place is his coworker Pam, and that’s only because she gave him a ride home from a work event. And then hung around far too long chatting in the doorway. She may have been interested, but Eddie’s got a huge pair of blinders on to both women and… men who aren’t Richie. </p><p>He used to thank his lucky stars that he didn’t cotton onto his crush until adulthood — until he told Richie he was splitting with Myra and Richie announced his intention to move back to New York from LA less than a month later. The swoop in Eddie’s stomach at the news rang alarm bells in his brain, and from there, it was all downhill. </p><p>“Can I help with anything?” Richie asks. Eddie almost explodes. </p><p>He’s been planning this for days: making lists, calling Bev, visiting with Ben, making more lists, going to the store. All while Richie sat mindlessly in his recliner. And went out clubbing, again, apparently. Or wherever the fuck he finds all these guys. </p><p><em> Don’t be judgmental</em>, Eddie thinks (also in his therapist’s voice, and admittedly, he’s not working too hard on that one), then presses his hands to his hips.</p><p>“I’m good, Rich,” he says, though he can hear the tension in his own voice, “Can you just please shower before Bev’s?” He avoids the “who knows where that guy’s been” tack-on, but also pettily hopes Richie can see it in his eyes as he starts to slink off to the bathroom. </p><p>Eddie pulls out his list and does a final check. </p><p>Food, alcohol, napkins, pie in the oven… the turkey. His eyes flit up to the top shelf with a grimace. He usually asks Richie to reach it, since he’s a tall motherfucker, and burning his fragile ego about his height seems tolerable only once a year, and when the fuck else would you need a turkey napkin holder? Still, it’s his paternal grandmother’s, a woman he loved deeply, the only family connection he really had other than his friends. The dumb thing still makes him nostalgic, and while the vaguely unpleasant nature of feelings and emotions usually make him uncomfortable, he allows it in her honor.</p><p>Eddie peers down the hall to see the bathroom door closed and the anger flashes again. Maybe it’s the fact that Richie woke up late, or somehow snuck another guy into their apartment, or left the orange juice carton on the counter <em> again </em>, but Eddie is suddenly one hundred percent determined to get the damn thing down by himself. He flings open the cabinet door, takes a deep breath, and looks up.</p><p>The highest shelf is empty. </p><p>A loud buzzing starts in Eddie’s ears. </p><p>
  <em> This makes no sense. Where the fuck would it be?  </em>
</p><p>It’s only left that shelf <em> once </em> , and that was last Thanksgiving. Eddie personally supervised Richie placing it back there, and he’s seen it a thousand times since then. He opens this cupboard almost every single day. And sure, he doesn’t <em> look </em> for it every single time. He has a fucking life, and he didn’t know he needed to check up on it. Why would someone move it?</p><p>Eddie’s heart pounds heavily against his ribcage. It thumps in his ears. It rises in his throat until all he can taste is his own panic and bile. It has to be somewhere. Richie takes short showers. He’ll ask when Richie gets out. Surely, he’ll know where it is. </p><p>Until then, he can clean. Cleaning will calm him down. He can hold his favorite bottle of Lysol, he can use one of the rags he just put through the laundry, and he can finally scrub the silverware drawer like he’s wanted to for weeks. Ever since Richie spilled lo mein and thought “picking up the bulk of the noodles should be fine.” </p><p>Crouching down under the sink for supplies, as soon as he opens the cabinet, his eyes land on the garbage can. </p><p>And the crushed ceramic turkey on top of a pile of paper towels. </p><p>Richie chooses that moment to come out of the bathroom. </p><p>“Your resident Trashmouth is now squeaky clean, ready to ingest as much bird carcass as I possibly can on this day, the day of our American ancestors— whoa, Eds, you—”</p><p>He stops in his tracks when he sees where Eddie is staring. </p><p>If it weren’t the trash, Eddie might pick it up. He’s working through his whole germ-thing (his whole self-hatred, self-shaming thing, more like, according to his therapist), but sticking his hand into a garbage can is a little too far, even for him. Even for <em> this</em>. Instead, he closes the cabinet carefully, as if he can avoid more damage that way. His eyes burn. This time he’s not sure if it’s anger or the very violent need to cry he feels (allows) approximately twice a year. Seems like his Christmas cry is arriving a month ahead of schedule. </p><p>“Eds, I—”</p><p>“Don’t fucking call me Eds,” Eddie snaps, pressing his hands to the counter. Richie licks at his lips. </p><p>“Eddie,” Richie says shakily, but it doesn’t feel any better. In fact, it’s a little worse. “I’m sorry. Matt came out to get some cookies last night, and I guess he must have closed the door a little too hard, ‘cause next thing I knew there was a crying, naked man squatting in the middle of our kitchen trying to scoop up pieces of gaudy ceramic—”</p><p>“It’s not fucking <em> gaudy</em>, it was my grandmother’s, Richie.” </p><p>Of course the fucking thing is gaudy. But he’s not willing to give up that much ground. Eddie’s <em> hurt</em>. He has a right to be hurt. He’s not exaggerating, he’s not blowing this out of proportion, he’s allowed to feel his <em> feelings</em>. He’s allowed to have reactions, that’s what his therapist says.</p><p>Fuck, he’s so fucking sick of being in therapy. </p><p>Richie’s face falls. “I know, <em> fuck</em>, I know. I’m sorry.” </p><p>That sick satisfaction rolls through Eddie again, waves of acid cresting up into his esophagus. He wants to scream. Cry. Feel all of his goddamn feelings and tell Richie to get the fuck out of his house, to move in with Matthew if he’s going to defend him over Eddie’s <em> one family heirloom</em>. </p><p>But Richie’s eyes are still so fucking sad. So big and droopy and dumb and beautiful and Eddie fucking <em> hates </em> himself for being so mad and still so in love he can barely breathe. Or maybe that’s the panic, it’s hard to say. </p><p>Then Richie looks at him one last time, long fucking eyelashes pressing again and again onto his cheeks, stubble still on his face, his jaw clenching, rugged and even, and sighs. </p><p>“I’m so sorry, man. I promise I’ll get you another one.” </p><p>Eddie scoffs, and a pinch of pain ripples through Richie’s face. Eddie wants to believe Richie’s really sorry, or he really will replace it. But all he hears is <em> man</em>. </p><p>
  <em> Let’s get this apartment before it’s gone, man. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Don’t worry, man. I know New York is expensive, but we’re in it together. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s just a little fun, man, don’t get so bent out of shape about it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Goodnight, man. I’ll see you tomorrow. </em>
</p><p>Eddie has no fucking idea what <em> man </em> means. To Richie, to <em> Matthew</em>, or to him. Something’s tugging at his stomach, and it’s something more than the mourning of a ceramic turkey. </p><p>But it’s Thanksgiving. He can fucking focus on something other than Richie Tozier today.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It turns out to be harder than he thought to ignore Richie Tozier, and in hindsight, he probably should have seen that coming. He’s spent a year living with the guy, and almost every morning Eddie watches the way Richie smooths his hair out of his face as he spoons cereal into his mouth and thinks of how easily he could do that, too, lazing next to him in bed, sunlight across his eyes, legs thrown over each other.</p><p>Really. Fucking. Hard.</p><p>Although the big fuck-off box in the middle of Ben and Bev’s living room provides a small distraction. </p><p>“What’d you get, one of those novelty beds?” Richie asks as soon as he sees it, parallel to their big couch, pine and large enough to fit a few humans and then some. Eddie’s too busy stocking Bev’s fridge with his own supplies to peer into it with Richie. Not that he’d want to stand next to Richie <em> anyway</em>, and feel the heat of his body, or smell his overly flowery shampoo or see how close his shave is—  </p><p>He needs to calm the fuck down. </p><p>Ben chuckles and answers, “No, just a regular one,” at the same time Bev says, “Oh hell yeah, like one of those race car beds? Ben, we really dropped the ball on this one.” </p><p>Ben throws her a wide smile, and Eddie grumbles into his bag of pre-chopped veggies. He loves his friends, but all of them are deep in fucking <em> love </em> and it makes Eddie want to, very lovingly, murder them. On his bad days, on days when Richie is particularly annoying, or attractive, or charming and stupidly funny, he can hardly handle being around all of them together. </p><p>Three sets of couples. </p><p>And Eddie and Richie. </p><p>Decidedly <em> not </em> a couple. </p><p>Next year it’ll probably be Richie and Matthew. Eddie will take both of those joints and eat his whole turkey dinner on the balcony, grumbling out at the birds with fervor. </p><p>Ben and Beverly, Stan and Mike, Bill and Audra, Richie and Matthew, and last, and definitely least, Eddie Kaspbrak and a flock of pigeons. </p><p>“Eds?” Richie calls after him, pointing at the giant box, “You seeing this?” </p><p>Eddie snaps out of his cranky pigeon thoughts and snorts.</p><p>“It’s a big fucking box, of course I see it.” </p><p>Richie frowns. “You’re still mad at me, I see.” </p><p>“What?” Bev flicks her head between them. “Eddie’s mad? Eddie, what are you mad about?” </p><p>“It’s nothing,” Eddie says at the same time Richie blurts, “Some guy I fucked broke his grandma’s turkey napkin… thing.” </p><p>Ben gasps. “The ceramic one?” He turns to Eddie, eyes shining with sorrow.</p><p>“That’s the one,” Richie answers instead.</p><p>Eddie clenches his fist around the plastic vegetable dip container. He angrily spoons some out onto the display plate. Its bastardized turkey shape mocks him. </p><p>“Eddie, I’m so sorry,” Bev says, moving toward him with a hand outstretched. Eddie stumbles back and away, smearing the side of his pants with white dip. </p><p>“It’s— it’s fine, it’s not—”</p><p>“It clearly <em> is</em>, though,” Richie says. </p><p>They’re all staring at him now, pity and sympathy and big, sad eyes and Eddie can’t handle it. They always get this way when something adjacent to his mother comes up, and it makes Eddie want to flee. He doesn’t want to deal with this again.</p><p>He pauses. Breathes. In and out. </p><p>“Can we just fucking drop it?” </p><p>It’s… an effort. </p><p>All four of them glance around awkwardly, and Eddie’s about to open his mouth to suggest they turn on the television, or talk about literally <em> anything else</em>, when Mike and Stan burst through the door and rip the attention away. </p><p>Eddie makes a note to say a word of thanks to the Thanksgiving gods for the constant interruptions that come with such a large group of friends. And the ever rotating topic of conversations that overrule the previous just as quickly.</p><p>“Hello, hello, we come bearing gifts,” Mike says, holding a big brown box aloft. Richie points between the bigger box and the new one, successfully diverted. </p><p>“Two boxes? It’s like Christmas come early!”</p><p>Stan pauses halfway through removing his jacket. “You know I don’t buy Christmas presents, Richie.” </p><p>“Technicalities, I want to know what’s in the box,” Richie says, hopping his way over to the door. He sweeps both Stan and Mike into big hugs, as if they don’t live right down the street, as if they didn’t all see each other two days ago for game night. Yet another painful reminder that Eddie and Richie are not a couple, since they always team up, and always, <em> always </em> do exceptionally well. </p><p>Eddie chalks it up to growing up together and tries to ignore the fact that Richie knows what kind of toothpaste Eddie prefers and that his favorite movie is <em> Stand by Me </em> and that he hates the feel of corduroy no matter how good it looks on him. Those feel like the types of things that boyfriends know. </p><p>Boyfriends, who can cuddle up on the couch while they play charades, or sit next to each other at the table with hands on each other’s thighs, or emerge out of their shared bedroom, rumpled and well-loved, and no one needs to borrow towels out of the guest closet and no one needs to feel shattered like the ceramic turkey in their garbage can. </p><p>But Stan is grumbling, and Eddie is the only one caught in his head, so he finishes unpacking his two tote bags of supplies and stands up to see what all the new-box commotion is. </p><p>“As you all know, I had to spend the morning with my parents,” Stan starts, and Mike throws his body backward, a hand over his forehead, feigning distress. Stan eyes him, irritated. “Shut the fuck up, they love you more than they love me at this point.” </p><p>Mike chuckles, holding Stan around the arms. “I know, I know, but they’re my in laws, aren’t I supposed to hate ‘em?” </p><p>“<em>Anyway</em>,” Stan says, cheeks pinking under his attempts not to smile, “I stopped by the lonely and rejected Tozier family household and they told me to give this to their ungrateful bastard son.”</p><p>Richie makes a series of incredulous and inhuman noises. </p><p>Stan grins over at Eddie, who returns it with pleasure. There’s no reason for Stan to know Eddie needs this sort of needling to calm himself, but luckily, his neutral gear seems to be poking Richie’s sore spots just for fun. </p><p>“I <em> told </em> them I would be home for Christmas this year and they seemed totally fine with it,” Richie says, stretching his body out across the couch in the living room. “And Went is only insulting himself by calling me a bastard. It’s not my fault they couldn’t wait until after the wedding.”</p><p>Stan shrugs.</p><p>“You know parents.” </p><p>Mike hums. “Yeah, since when has Maggie ever told you something wasn’t ok, Rich?” </p><p>“What the fuck,” Richie says, burying his face in the cushions. “Mikey, you’re a relative by marriage, how is it you know my parents better than I do?” </p><p>“<em>Relative </em> by <em> marriage</em>? What—” Mike looks around the room. “None of you are related, how am I being downgraded here?”</p><p>“It’s a figure of speech,” Richie says, rolling his hand toward the rest of them. “You are clearly the most interesting in the group, it’s actually a compliment.” </p><p>Mike puts his hands on his hips. “Why, because I’m Black?” </p><p>A silence pours over the room, all of them frozen in their tracks, Richie’s mouth dropped open, quivering in a desperate attempt to explain himself while his brain comes up empty. Mike’s mouth stays steady and straight while the rest of them slowly dissolve into huffs of laughter. Stan breaks the dam fully, until they’re all heaved over, and Eddie feels the slow, syrupy feeling of satisfaction run through his veins.</p><p>“Fuck, this is why I married him,” Stan gasps, lifting up and wiping at his eyes. “He’s the only one who can shut you up.” </p><p>“Thanks, dear,” Mike says, pecking at Stan’s cheek and blowing Richie a kiss when he flips him the bird. </p><p>“And I say again: anyway.” Stan points at the smaller box they brought in. Eddie’s closer to this one, Richie still a safe distance away on the couch, so he peers inside to see a smattering of old objects covered in a thin layer of dust. He preemptively waves a hand in front of his face, creating a shield between him and the grime. </p><p>“What is it? The shit they didn’t want from their basement?” Eddie asks, spotting an old VHS tape, a crumpled up t-shirt and what looks like their Senior yearbook. Stan shrugs.</p><p>“Pretty much.” Stan motions for Richie to come join them. “It’s just some stuff they said Richie might want to look through. Otherwise we can toss it.” He points to Mike next. “Mike insisted we grab the yearbook, though I’m ok forgetting that year completely.”</p><p>“He had an <em> afro</em>,” Mike whispers, delighted, into Eddie’s ear. </p><p>“Yeah, I fuckin’ know, I was the one there telling him to come to his senses,” Eddie says back, full volume. Stan rolls his eyes and Richie’s ears perk up. </p><p>“And <em> I </em> was there telling him to live his hip, sexy dreams,” Richie says, pushing his eyebrows up and down on his forehead. Stan tugs at the top of his head.</p><p>“It was a failed experiment forever memorialized in print.” </p><p>Mike ruffles at Stan’s curls. “Probably not a decision to make right before picture day.” </p><p>Stan glares at Richie. “Yeah, probably <em> not</em>.” </p><p>Richie hides his face with the yearbook. Ben turns around from where he’s been hovering around the stove and flails his arms.</p><p>“‘Dinner’ will be ready in half an hour,” he says, rabbit earring around dinner. Bev makes a show of snorting over where she’s setting the table. They’ve put in the leaves to extend it, though they could probably keep it in permanently. Most nights there are at least six of them wandering around the apartment, eating pizza, playing cards and watching television until someone (Ben) ultimately falls asleep and Bev kicks them all out. </p><p>“Good,” Richie says, eyeing Eddie over the book still shoved in his face. “Maybe a little food will cheer Eddie up.” </p><p>Eddie feels anger flare through him anew, so he yanks the VHS out of the box from Richie's mom. The stretched, yellowing piece of tape along the side reads “Prom 1994,” and when a cold, unadulterated shiver goes through Eddie’s body at the sight of the words, at the flood of memories that overflows him, he shoves it straight back under the loudly patterned t-shirt on top. Unfortunately, Bev sees him, and snatches the tape back. </p><p>“Oh my <em>god</em>,” she says, pressing the tape flat under her nail, “is this really our prom video?” </p><p>Eddie tries to grab it back, but Bev’s always been too quick for him. Her eyes sparkle as she shakes it back in forth in her hand. </p><p>“I’m putting this on,” she says through a smile, but Ben explodes before she’s finished.</p><p>“You are not leaving me alone to eat this whole goddamn meal after insisting I’m ‘a better cook’ and ‘more organized’ and you ‘have your period,’” Ben grunts, more of his patented rabbit ears at full swing, but his eyes bug when he realizes what he just said out loud. Bev drops the tape to smack him across the chest, and he turns back to stir at whatever is bubbling in a giant pot behind him. </p><p>“I’m not lying about my fucking period, Ben, and just for that you have to serve us, too.” </p><p>Stan and Mike are snickering at the table, but Richie is uncharacteristically quiet on the couch. He’s staring at the small box from his parents, face pale, chewing at his lip. </p><p>Ben grumbles. “I deserve that, I know it.” Bev nods.</p><p>“Yes, and for the hideous impression of my voice.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Richie finally pipes up, his lips coloring a little.  “Leave the voices to me, young man.” </p><p>Ben whips around. “I am <em> one year </em> younger than you, can you let that go?”</p><p>Richie cracks through a laugh, and Eddie hates how warm it makes him. </p><p>“Well I’m still devastated I didn’t get to see a young Ben Hanscom attend prom. Little frilly collar.” Richie gestures around his neck. “A New Kids t-shirt underneath his jacket.”</p><p>Ben throws a dish-rag straight into his face and his cackles escalate. Eddie’s knees shake from a combination of anger and lust, so he takes a seat the table next to Stan, who’s moving to say something.</p><p>“It’s not like you even went along with us, anyway, Rich.” </p><p>Richie’s head ducks low again, something flashing across his eyes. He bounces back in almost a second flat.</p><p>“Wait,” Mike stops. “You didn’t go?” He holds the tape aloft, studying it. “Then why did your parents record it?”</p><p>A whole slew of familiar nerves spark through Eddie’s body. He sees Richie wave a hand, then lift off the couch and sneak toward the large box next to it. </p><p>“You think I can fit in this thing?” He cranes his neck over it, pushing at the lid to put a foot in. </p><p>Stan just shrugs. Again. “Eddie was living there, and he was going, so I guess we figured it’d be easier to meet there.”</p><p>Eddie clears his throat. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Bev throws him a contrite glance, and he glares back, hoping that conveys an angry <em> this is all your fault</em>.</p><p>“I can totally fit in this thing,” Richie says, half-flamingoed into the box, his hijinks the energetic avoidant partner to Eddie’s own slow, simmering brand.</p><p>But then Mike turns to him and asks, “You lived with Richie?”</p><p>That’s when Richie slinks into the box completely, lowering himself onto his back. Eddie wants to walk over and nail the cover shut. His leg shakes restlessly under the table.</p><p>“Uh,” is all he says, before Bev saves him.</p><p>“It was after his mom died, he stayed with Bill, too.” She looks around the room, and Eddie loves her, she’s so fucking obvious. “Where is Bill, anyway? He’s late.” </p><p>“He’s not late,” Ben says, flipping off the burner switch and fitting oven mitts on to get the turkey. “Audra said they’d be here sometime after we sit down for food — she’s auditioning somewhere today.” </p><p>Mike sits up in his chair, and relaxation floods Eddie. It’s not like he doesn’t want to tell Mike someday — Mike is his friend. One of his best friends since the divorce, easy to talk to, no pressure, easy on the eyes, openly gay, all that good stuff. But he doesn’t know about Richie. He doesn’t know about <em> Eddie </em> and Richie.</p><p>How Richie’s family took him in after his mom left him a decrepit house all to himself. How he always preferred his five days a week at the Toziers to his two days in the cold, silence of the Denbroughs, even though he had to share a room with Richie. How Maggie helped him with his homework and Went made him amazing fajitas. How most of the time, he and Richie ended up in the same bed because neither of them could handle the sleeping bag on the floor. </p><p>How he never slept nearly as well with Myra as he did with Richie in that four month span of time. Or how often he thinks about that now that Richie is just one room away. </p><p>That story will give Mike the full picture, alright. A picture of a hopelessly one-sided love Eddie is now harboring and all the details he missed leading up to it.</p><p>“Audra’s got another audition? That’s great!” Mike says, a smile stretching at his cheeks. He beams over at Eddie, who tries for a smile back. Mike claps him on the back. </p><p>“I’m gonna take a post-Thanksgiving nap in here, guys,” Richie calls from the box. </p><p>Stan grimaces. “Maybe you should get a jump on it now, man.” </p><p>Eddie and Mike exchange laughs as Ben finally pulls the crispy brown turkey from the oven.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Audra and Bill make it a few minutes into dinner, flushed faces and easy smiles, and Richie finally emerges from his box so they can eat Ben’s meticulously prepared food. Eddie pretends not to stare at Richie through the whole meal, but. He does. </p><p>He just can’t let anything fucking go. He can’t imagine why Richie would ask him to live with him and then set absolutely no rules in regards to having people stay the night. Sure, this is the first time any of their property has been damaged, <em> Eddie’s </em> property, actually, but who knows what will happen in the future? Richie doesn’t know these guys. Literally anything could happen, and Richie is putting them at risk. And after promising they’d go it together — Richie’s rocky career, Eddie’s post-divorce attempt at starting again. </p><p>Eddie wolfs down potatoes and tries not to glare at anything but his own food. When he’s finally finished his plate, he makes a trip to the bathroom to wash his hands and give himself an in-mirror pep talk. </p><p>Richie is on the other side of the door as soon as he’s done. He’s leaning against the door jam, his dumb button-up hanging over his shoulders, his dumb turkey t-shirt taunting Eddie, his huge, dumb eyes trying to garner sympathy.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, dumbly. </p><p>Eddie, who spent the better part of a minute staring at himself in the mirror to will away the irritation, spikes back to full capacity at the sound of Richie’s voice. He knows nothing good will come of it — he just needs to give it time. To shake it off and make it through the digestion and socializing.</p><p>“Bathroom’s yours,” Eddie says, brushing past Richie and heading toward where everyone else is gathered in the living room. But Richie grabs him hard around the arm to stop him. “The fuck—”</p><p>“Eddie, c’mon, I can tell you’re still mad, alright?” </p><p>Eddie shakes out of Richie’s grip and clenches his fists. “I’m not mad.” </p><p>Richie exhales directly into Eddie’s face. It does not help. </p><p>“You’re really gonna ice me out on Thanksgiving? I thought this day was supposed to be about appreciating the shit you have and— and— and like,” Richie’s gesturing wildly, his face straining with the effort of landing on the actual meaning of Thanksgiving, “like <em> forgiving </em> or whatever!”</p><p>Eddie wants to scream again. He wants Richie to leave it the fuck <em> alone </em> so he can seethe in silence and then go home without looking Richie in the eye and go to sleep, so he can start a new day without this hanging over his head. He bites hard at the inside of his cheek.</p><p>“Thanksgiving is not about forgiveness.” </p><p>“Well it could be! It <em> should </em> be!” Richie yelps.</p><p>“Why?” Eddie breaks, thunking back into the bathroom door so he can put some space between them, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. “So everything can revolve around you and what you want? So you can get what you want like every single other day of the fucking year?” </p><p>Richie reels back like Eddie smacked him. He runs a hand through his hair and Eddie tries to ignore the way his dumb curls bounce. </p><p>“What the fuck are you <em> talking </em> about?” </p><p>Richie has the gall to look surprised, to look innocent, like he didn’t trap Eddie in a housing situation with unknowable terms and then parade in a ton of men and make Eddie watch his dreams slowly slide down the storm drain along with the rest of his hopes and aspirations. </p><p>“You think there are no consequences to your actions! You always drink out of the carton when I specifically told you not to, you don’t pull your weight on the dishes, or the organizing, and you fucking <em> slept in </em> when I clearly needed your help getting supplies together. You bring men home to our place without asking me—”</p><p>“Wait,” Richie stops him, his eyes gone hard again. “Are you upset about that guy, or something?” </p><p>Eddie’s brain fizzles. “The f— what? <em> Matthew</em>?” </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, Matthew.” One of Richie’s shoulders shrug up to his chin, like he honestly forgot.</p><p>“No, I’m not <em> upset</em>— the— I fucking— the guy doesn’t matter, okay? It’s about all this other—” Eddie’s chest catches, his breathing gone shaky, because that’s <em> not </em> it, that’s not <em> all </em>of it— Richie is just inconsiderate and thoughtless and fucking rude and Eddie has feelings, even if he doesn’t want to admit to it all the time, and he can’t just deal with it himself like he wants when Richie is poking and prodding him every few seconds and walking around here with his ridiculous hair and his dumb, huge body and his sad, big eyes, willing to immediately forget the name of the man he fucked last night but not the fact that Eddie is mad and doesn’t want to talk about it.</p><p>Eddie takes a deep breath, ramping up to let Richie know some of that, maybe a condensed version, though he’s never been able to be concise in his life, especially not when he’s this angry, but then Stan appears between them in the corner. </p><p>“Hey, what are you two—”</p><p>“We’re fine,” Eddie snaps, at the same time Richie says, “Eddie won’t talk to me.” </p><p>Stan’s eyes go wide, like the tension is dawning on him. Then they squint. </p><p>“Oh-<em> kay</em>.” He points back to the living room, where Ben is fiddling with their ancient VHS player. “We’re putting on the prom video, if you two are done being awkward and mad at each other long enough to care about, oh, anyone else.” </p><p>Richie’s face crumples even further. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mumbles to himself. </p><p>“Whatever,” Eddie says, pushing into the living room and plopping down in his usual cushy chair. Bev’s already at his feet, her faithful position, criss-cross applesauce, and she stares up at him with the same puppy dog eyes Richie has been giving him all day. He smooths a piece of fiery red hair off her forehead. She shines under his touch, lips curving into a smile. </p><p>But Richie isn’t done. </p><p>“Why are we dredging up old history again?” he asks, pacing behind where Stan, Mike, Bill and Audra are coupled up on the couch. “Just to see how much Eddie’s ex looks like his mom?” </p><p>Eddie flushes. “Don’t fucking start, Richie.” </p><p>“What! You’re clearly pissed at me!”</p><p>Eddie feels the eyes on all of his friends on him. He wants to scream. </p><p>“Can you stop bringing this up? Today is not about us.” Eddie feels Bev’s hand gently wrap around his calf, but ignores it in favor of glaring at Richie, who’s getting redder by the second. </p><p>“Just forgive me and I’ll stop bringing it up!”</p><p>“No, I’m not fucking <em> forgiving </em> you,” Eddie says. “You can’t just deal with the fact that I’m mad at you? Like an adult?”</p><p>Richie keels back in a mime of a laugh. “Fuck <em> no</em>, when have I ever been a fucking adult?”</p><p>“You can say that again,” Stan snorts. </p><p>“Shut up, Stan,” Richie snaps, not taking his eyes off Eddie for a second. “Just tell me what to fucking do, okay? I’ll do it. You want me to cook meals for us for the next year? Buy you a new fanny pack? Climb in that box for a time out? I’ll do it, man.” </p><p><em> Man</em>. Man man man man man. </p><p>“Yes,” Eddie says simply, though it comes out as more of a snarl than a word.  </p><p>Everyone looks around, including Richie, while Eddie’s mind spins on an endless windmill of emotions. Ben’s holding the tape halfway into the VCR. </p><p>“Wh— wait. Which one?” Richie asks. Eddie just points across the room.</p><p>“Get in the fucking box.” </p><p>Richie’s face jerks with a lackluster attempt at a laugh. “Okay, Brad Pitt.”</p><p>“Not even remotely close to a good reference,” Bev says from the ground. But Eddie is stuck.</p><p>“I’m serious, Rich.” He holds Richie’s eyes, more sure of this petty piece of revenge than anything else in his life. He hates his fucking job, he hates his fucking living situation, he hates <em> Matthew</em>, he hates his fucking <em> feelings </em>. But he loves the idea of shutting Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier into a large box for a few hours so he can learn his lesson. “Get in the box for the rest of the night and maybe I’ll forgive you.”</p><p>The room waits while Richie’s smile turns up reluctantly. “That’s… kinky.”</p><p>Eddie shoots to a stand, the suggestion rippling through him. “It was <em> your </em> fucking idea, numbnuts.” </p><p>“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d pick <em> that </em> one! I was perfectly content making burnt mac and cheese for us every day for a year!” </p><p>They look like they’re facing off now, standing in fierce angles across the living room from each other, eyeing the giant box Richie was previously so enthusiastic about. </p><p>Ben pulls the tape out of the player and reaches out toward Eddie calmly.</p><p>“Listen, guys, maybe we should take a beat and talk things out a little more.”</p><p>Eddie sees Bev wince, just as Richie’s body sags.</p><p>“No, I’ll do it,” he says, much to Eddie’s surprise. He really expected Richie to storm out, or maybe laugh it all off with another joke, or maybe even start crying — all of Eddie’s expectations are off the charts right now. </p><p>But instead, Richie climbs carefully into the box, just as he did before. </p><p>Eddie slowly lowers himself into the chair at the same time. Their eyes hold each other, the scent of the challenge hanging in the air. But Eddie’s not fucking cracking here. Not today. He’s not giving Richie the satisfaction of calling this off. </p><p>Ben pops the tape back into the player and sprawls out on the chair across from Eddie.</p><p>Everyone is silent as he presses play, even Richie, even Eddie, until the blue screen crackles on in front of them.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The silence doesn’t linger long once the picture of a fluffy-haired, suited Eddie hits the screen. </p><p>“Oh my <em> god</em>, Eddie,” Mike exclaims from the couch, just in time for Eddie to bury his face in the arm of his chair and groan. “You look just like—”</p><p>“Shawn from <em> Boy Meets World</em>, yes,” Bev finishes, cackling between Eddie’s legs. He crunches them together, pressing in around her ribs, but she just rocks back and forth, clutching at him in delighted hilarity. </p><p>“I’m missing 90’s Eddie hair?” Richie calls from the box. </p><p><em> Fuck</em>. Eddie really hoped the depth of the wood would muffle all comments from the peanut gallery. Apparently all it takes to break the tension is nostalgia. </p><p>“Yes,” Mike calls back. “And a crisp white suit with amazingly stark black lapels.” </p><p>“And somehow it’s almost two sizes two big?” Stan adds. </p><p>Eddie pops his head up. “You told me I looked quote ‘hot as shit’ you asshole.” </p><p>Stan shrugs through his sinister smile. Eddie briefly considers pulling the tape from the player and unspooling it in front of the entire room.</p><p>“You <em> do</em>, Eds!” Ben says. Eddie throws him a grateful glance, then returns to ignoring the screen, since he’s the only one still on it. </p><p>He remembers Wentworth Tozier, Richie’s dad, pulling out the video camera as soon as he came downstairs dressed. It started with a full body shot of the suit Went bought from one of the guys he knew at the shop down the street from his dental practice. He insisted he got a deal, and that Eddie shouldn’t feel bad taking things from them. “We’re family,” he had said, and Maggie had patted him on the back with a warm nod. </p><p>Eddie had shut himself in the bathroom later that night, shaking and crying with an indeterminable anger that often found him when adults were kind and reasonable. He felt stupid, and untethered, and most of all, <em> loved</em>, and that, somehow, felt the worst of all. </p><p>Then Maggie starts talking onscreen, and Eddie moves to look out of instinct. </p><p>Even through the grainy picture and the shaky recording as Went tries to find his focus, Maggie Tozier is just as Eddie remembers her. Long coils of deep brown hair, rosy cheeks, soft voice, and taller than anyone else’s mom on the block. No wonder Richie towers over him — she did, too. With Maggie, it felt sweet and comforting. And with Richie it feels like someone is burrowing their hand into Eddie’s rib cage. Squeezing and squeezing Eddie’s heart in rapid succession until it causes a permanent arrhythmia.  </p><p>Eddie shakes his head. <em> Not </em> thinking about Richie. </p><p>Onscreen, Maggie prods at Eddie’s crooked tie, pulling until it’s even and then smoothing it against his collarbone. Eddie’s stomach churns as onscreen Eddie shines up at her. When she leans down to peck at his forehead, he almost throws up. </p><p>But Bev seems rather pleased. “Awww, I miss Maggie.” </p><p>“I forgot: she sends her love to all of us,” Stan says, reaching to the coffee table to start slicing a piece of pumpkin pie. Mike watches him in bloated horror, rubbing at his stomach. </p><p>“She always liked you more than me, Eds,” Richie says from the box. Eddie scowls in its direction, displeased with its stoic and unbothered reaction. </p><p>Maggie always saw through Eddie in a way that made Eddie’s throat go tight and his palms sweat. She wasn’t scary by any means, but she pushed through his dependence on anger and sifted through to the emotional truth of it all. Sometimes, late at night, when Richie was conked out and Eddie couldn’t sleep, he would slip down to the kitchen to find Maggie hovering over a magazine at the kitchen table. She’d raise an eyebrow and gesture for him to sit and they’d talk while she doled him out some ice cream and he’d spoon it around in anxious circles and tell her things he never told anyone. About his mom, what he could remember about his dad, about his friends, about school. Then he’d head back upstairs to Richie’s room, plop into bed and fall asleep easy.</p><p>He’s always been worried she could tell — that she knew before he did. So Eddie’s seen Maggie sparingly since moving in with Richie, through no fault of her own. </p><p>It’s just that Eddie isn’t quite ready to face that time in his life yet. It plays like a line of dominoes in his head: perilously tipping each time he looks back. If he pushes at one, they all fall. And he’s been working so hard at taking them down safely, and one at a time. Therapy has been about untangling the grief and anger around his mother, or relaxing his reliance on control and cleanliness in order to ignore his feelings. There’s no way he’s ready to face his feelings for Richie, at least not <em> out loud</em>. </p><p>Besides, Eddie’s pretty sure he’s in love with him. And he’s also pretty sure Maggie Tozier could see that from a mile away. </p><p>“She must’ve been glad to have someone to keep you occupied,” Eddie grumbles back. </p><p>“Job well done, Spaghetti.”</p><p>“Don’t fucking <em> call </em> me that,” Eddie snaps. Bev’s head whips around to eye him hard. “I know,” he whispers, because he fucking <em> knows </em> . But he has no idea what to do with this anger but focus it all on Richie. Richie and <em> Matthew </em> and this stupid holiday and Maggie Tozier’s kind hands trying to unwrinkle his suit on the screen and fucking <em> Matthew</em>—</p><p>“Oh my god, Bill, you look so cute!”</p><p>Bill snorts. “Audra, come on…”</p><p>“He looked good in blue,” Stan agrees. Eddie turns to him as Bill and Bev awkwardly embrace in the video.</p><p>“You have an awful lot of observations today, Stan.” </p><p>Stan shrugs. “I’m trying to get them in before I show up and steal the show.” </p><p>Eddie kind of wants to punch him, but he can’t deny Stan is right. He looked good on prom night. Even Eddie’s stomach fluttered when he walked through the door, as he’s about to do any minute onscreen, dressed in a lighter blue than Bill, more powder, his hair a generous and loose curl, a shorter and scrunchier alternative to Maggie’s ringlets.</p><p>“Who did you go with again?” Ben asks. He was the year behind them in school, but they’d see him around a lot. He and Richie would play guitar in Richie’s garage, plucking loudly and never managing actual music. Eddie didn’t know him that well as a kid, but age matters more when you’re young. Now Eddie tends to forget they haven’t always been friends. </p><p>“Patty Blum.” Stan swallows the bite of pie in his mouth. “We were math lab partners and—”</p><p>“What the fuck I forgot about <em> math lab</em>,” Richie interrupts, and Stan throws him a glare, but he can’t be intimidated by what he can’t see, so he asks, “Didn’t you go to a fucking math camp, too?”</p><p>“That was for Mathletes, and we camped out for a weekend, it wasn’t a <em> math camp</em>.” </p><p>Eddie can hear Richie’s obnoxious (cute) laughter from across the room. </p><p>“Anyway, it was fun and she’s married with like, four kids or something. Lives on Long Island. Her husband wrote that one man show in the Village that I skipped a couple years back.” </p><p>Mike tips his head back. “Ahhhh, yes, your ‘concerningly high fever’ sabotaged you.” </p><p>“Right,” Stan says with a wink. He shoves another piece of pie in his mouth. </p><p>“And you two went together?” Mike points between Bev on the floor and Bill, on the couch, with Audra practically in his lap. Eddie sees Bill meet Bev’s eyes before cuddling back into Audra. </p><p>“Yep, high school sweethearts,” he says, chomping playfully at Audra’s arm. </p><p>Bev smiles over at Ben. “Everyone makes mistakes.” </p><p>“Yeah, alright, alright, lay off, Beaverly,” Bill groans, pointing the attention back to Mike. “Did you go to your high school prom, Mikey?” </p><p>Mike waves a hand, and Eddie feels relieved to have the pressure off of him for a little while. </p><p>“I went with my boyfriend at the time, but just as friends,” he says, an easy smile tilting his lips, as it always does when he’s recalling life in a small town in Maine. “I was six feet tall and Black, I didn’t really wanna push it with the gay thing, but I’m sure people knew.” </p><p>“Don’t be so sure about that, Mikey, no one figured me out but Marsh there,” Richie says from the box. </p><p>Bill peeks around Audra. “Oh, <em> please</em>.” </p><p>Richie makes an incredulous noise, but Eddie’s still watching the tape, where Went and Maggie have started to usher the kids into the hallway to take pictures. First are Bill and Bev, gorgeous in a shiny, nearly-skin tight silver dress, slit up the side and red hair cascading from where it had grown out their final year. Bill’s arm holds proudly around her as they smile for the camera, and Eddie remembers how happy they were there for a little while. Not well-suited, but glad for each other’s company. </p><p>Stan and Patty are both there, too, crowded against the wall, arms hanging awkwardly at their sides. Patty’s a vision in black, equally as sparkly as Bev. Eddie remembers them coordinating, buddies until everyone went to college and settled into different lives. Bev with Ben, eventually, Patty with her husband, Stan with Mike, and Eddie with—</p><p>“Is Myra getting here soon, Eddie? We’d love to have a picture of all the couples!” Maggie asks cheerfully onscreen. Suited Eddie shrugs, a pinch forming between his brows as he looks toward the door.</p><p>“She said she’d be here at quarter to five, Mrs. Tozier,” he says, the squeak of his young voice startling to him. </p><p>“Eds, I thought your balls had dropped by this point,” Richie says. </p><p>Eddie’s glued to the television, but manages a quiet, “Shut up, Richie,” that he probably can’t even hear. </p><p>He’d forgotten the way this night unfolded. But then Went turns the camera on a teenaged Richie, and all the memories fly back out of his head.</p><p>Eddie had clearly also forgotten how fucking cute and awkward and <em> dorky </em> Richie looked as a kid. His hair is dark and curly, too, but in big groups of unruly bunches over his scalp. Eddie remembers it falling over the front of his face and how hard Eddie’s fingers would itch to brush it away, then, too. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, also two sizes two big, just like Eddie’s suit. He’s brooding up against the fireplace, staring out at his friends hamming it up for the cameras, and then Eddie sees his younger self approach him. </p><p>Richie’s spine straightens, his face lighting up as Eddie pulls teasingly at the hem of his shirt. They laugh over something together, something Eddie can’t hear over the loud hooting in the room.</p><p>“Richie look at that fucking <em> mop</em>,” Bill yells, and Eddie hears a thump in the box.</p><p>“I can’t fucking <em> look </em> right now, dude, I’m sorry my luscious locks are so threatening to you.” </p><p>“You <em> look </em> like the world’s worst shampoo ad,” Eddie hears Stan say, but he’s lost, stuck back in time, watching a younger version of himself look at Richie, and laugh at Richie, and roll his eyes at Richie, and he wonders if he’s always looked like that.</p><p>Like he’s... smitten.</p><p>“Richard,” Maggie calls, now behind the camera as Went comes to the forefront. “I wish you would put on something nice so we could at least take pictures with the group.” </p><p>“Yeah, son,” Went says, busting between where Eddie and Richie are huddled together to wrap an arm around Richie’s shoulders. “I have my old prom suit up there, and I think we’re about the same build.”</p><p>Went swells his chest as Richie chuckles reluctantly, like only a teenager laughing at their dad’s jokes can. </p><p>“Tall and far too broad for anything with shoulders that fit right?” Maggie mumbles into the camera. Went quirks a brow and smiles. </p><p>“You love this awkwardly shaped body, my dear,” he answers, with the cadence of Richie. The cadence of <em> himself</em>, really, but it sounds so much like what Eddie is used to hearing from Richie that he almost forgot its original derivation. </p><p>“Dad, I’m not fucking wearing your old swamp suit, it made you look like HR Puffenstuff,” teenage Richie grumbles, crossing his arms to complete the cliche. Young Eddie hides a smile behind his hand, but adult Eddie sees right through him.</p><p>Fucking Christ, and here he had convinced himself he wasn’t as fucking head over heels until after his marriage. He and Myra were on the cusp of dating when they went to prom — and prom just sealed the deal. Not <em> sexually</em>, of course, that didn’t happen until a couple years later in college, but Eddie started spending a lot more time at Myra’s house after prom. Richie was a little cold in those last few months of the semester, and Eddie figured he was intruding on Richie’s last year at home with his parents. He and Myra were planning on going to the same school, anyway. Richie was off to LA to try his hand at acting.</p><p>And maybe it was easier not to face how painful it was to be leaving each other by just, well, ignoring it. </p><p>Richie bangs around in the box, most likely adjusting. It’s long, but not very wide or tall, and as Maggie said, the Tozier men are an awkward size and breed. </p><p>“I’ll take that as the compliment I’m sure was intended and tell you to at least get your ass over here to hang out with your friends, young man,” Went says, shaking Richie around the arms. He’s only nearly started to go grey at this age, little peppered streaks of white over his temples. Wentworth Tozier never looked too much like Richie, or perhaps, again, the other way around, but there has never been any doubt they are related. </p><p>Even with physically distant features, Eddie can still see a shadow of Richie’s smile in Went’s own. </p><p>Young Richie moans and groans his way to the hallway to stand with his friends, and Eddie follows closely on his heels. Myra still hasn’t shown up, but video Eddie doesn’t seem too concerned. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>One time jump that sorely lacks editing and phone call later, Eddie is visibly panicking onscreen, crouched into a rocking chair, head draped over his knees as he rambles.</p><p>“They won’t let me in with only one ticket! And Myra’s mom said she left almost <em> half an hour </em> ago and she lives ten minutes from here. What the fuck could have happened? I can’t go to this thing alone and I’m <em> not </em> missing my goddamn Senior prom. I already missed Homecoming because—” </p><p>Eddie sees his own lips wobble, and his heart strains in his chest. His mother went into the hospital the night of the big Homecoming game. </p><p>The whole time he sat at her bedside, all he could think about was how his friends were cheering in the stadium, and how Richie promised to sneak in a flask, and what a horrible person he was for wishing he was ignoring sports with his friends instead of there, listening to the slow beep of her heart monitor. </p><p>Bev is sat next to Eddie onscreen, rubbing a hand over his calf.</p><p>“Don’t panic yet, Eddie, I’m sure she just stopped for gas or something.”</p><p>Richie scoffs from his permanent position of pouting near the fireplace.</p><p>“She drives the shittiest little car I’ve ever seen, it probably broke down and she’s thumbing her way up the highway.” </p><p>“<em>Rich</em>,” Bill hisses through the video. The camera jerks suddenly, making its way over to where Richie is standing.</p><p>“Ow, mom, what the f—”</p><p>“Come with me,” Maggie says, the camera cocked at an angle as she focuses on her asshole son instead of artistic integrity. “I’ll be right back, kids.” </p><p>Richie’s video-groans overlap with a current one, and Eddie finally takes his eyes off the screen to stare at the same solitary box where Richie still sits. </p><p>“Are we done with this yet?” Richie says, his voice low and tired, how he sounds when Eddie drags him to baseball games and doesn’t let him get three hot dogs. “I’m not really in the mood to relive one of the many scoldings of Maggie Tozier.” </p><p>“Richie, hush, it’s getting good, this is a huge plot twist,” Bev says, crunching down on the bowl of popcorn she made while the video fuzzed out in the middle of posing for pictures. </p><p>“Okay, well, I’m not watching,” Richie huffs, and Eddie lets a laugh slip through that he hopes Richie can’t hear. The effects of teenage Richie are getting to him. For a second there, he’d almost forgotten about his seething anger from the day, or how he’s making Richie take a self-imposed time out for… what exactly? Sleeping with someone other than him, despite not knowing that isn’t okay? </p><p>Eddie’s never given Richie any explicit indication that he can’t date other people. And why the fuck would Richie assume it <em> isn’t </em>okay? Eddie’s never opened his mouth, or set any boundaries, or asked to be the only one he makes dinner for, or gets things off the high shelves for, or orders emergency Chinese for when work is tough. </p><p>But Eddie does want those things. </p><p>He stares at the box and wonders if Richie is even that kind of guy. </p><p>Eddie doesn’t want to be fucked and forgotten, like the rest of the guys Richie brings home. He wants— well. He wants what they have <em> now</em>, just with a few added bonuses. Like pairing up on game night, or collaborating on potluck night, or, like, lots of sex and commitment and love. Normal relationship stuff. </p><p>When Bev grips him hard around the shin, Eddie snaps out of his thoughts and sees Went and the camera, aka Maggie, crowded around Richie in their darkened upstairs hallway. Eddie recognizes it as the doorway to their master bedroom — a place he was never allowed. Actually, no one told him he wasn’t <em> allowed </em>, but it always seemed like an unspoken rule: never approach parent bedrooms. You never know what’s going on in there. </p><p>“You know I have the suit, son,” Went is saying, while Richie is adamantly shaking his head. </p><p>Eddie clearly missed something. Are they trying to convince him to take pictures again? “Wait, what is happen—”</p><p>Bev shushes him, gripping tighter to his leg. He claws her off and resituates in the chair so his legs are out of reach. </p><p>“We know you care about Eddie, Richie,” Maggie says onscreen, and Eddie’s heart drops three stories into his colon. </p><p>Eddie looks to the box. Richie stays silent. </p><p>“He wants to go to his prom,” Went says, chuffing at Richie’s chin. “I’m sure he’d love to have you take him.” </p><p>Wait. <em> What? </em></p><p>“I don’t have a ticket, dad,” young Richie says. Went blows air through his teeth.</p><p>“Eddie’s got two tickets, who cares who uses them? He paid for them, right?” </p><p>Maggie laughs from behind the camera. “Always the opportunist.” </p><p>Everyone back in Bev and Ben’s living room are silently glancing around, clearly confused, but not wanting to alert Richie in the box. Eddie feels frozen. The young version of himself, if he remembers correctly, is still rocking back and forth in that chair, totally clueless that the boy he’s crushed on for, realistically, and unknowingly, years, is actually thinking about white-horsing it in a dusty old suit and saving the night. </p><p>Eddie’s head spins as Richie’s face onscreen ranges through his options, the incessant shaking now turned into an interested consideration. Eddie suddenly, absurdly, wonders if Richie ended up taking him, before remembering that he already knows how this ends because he lived it. He can’t change history by willing it into existence after the fact. </p><p><em> At least he didn’t actually put on the suit</em>, Eddie thinks, before the screen cuts again. </p><p>When it comes back, Richie is in the suit. </p><p>Eddie hears a couple gasps, and Bev whisper, “oh my <em> god</em>,” through the fog of what is playing out before him. </p><p>Richie looks… stunning. </p><p>Contrary to his earlier predictions, Went’s suit fits Richie perfectly. And he doesn’t look like a sea monster, or a seventies weed-induced nightmare, but instead, like a beautiful, if not still slightly frizzy young man about to take his date to the prom. The suit is a middle of the range green, somewhere between moss and forest, and it brings out the shimmer in Richie’s eyes perfectly. The lapels are even thicker than Eddie’s, and it’s a three-piece yet to be buttoned, so Eddie sees how well it hugs Richie’s middle, tracked down the center with golden buttons. His tie is a red and black checkered thing laid over a crisp white shirt. </p><p>He’s smiling shyly at the camera as Maggie preens at him, but quietly, so no one can hear them downstairs. </p><p>Eddie can’t remember what his past self is up to anymore. All he can think of is Richie. </p><p>All he can think of is how this night ends.</p><p>“I’m telling you, Rich, you look positively debonair,” Went says, straightening his bowtie much like Maggie did to Eddie earlier, and Eddie sees Richie duck his head. </p><p>It’s then that it hits him: Richie <em> looks </em> like he’s going on a date. It’s not just the suit, or the nervous twitching in his fingers, or the words of his parents. It’s the look on his face. The hopeful, shy reluctance of his smile, the color in his cheeks, the way he runs his hands through his hair to press it more solidly against his head, like Eddie’s only seen him do before weddings and auditions for parts he <em> really </em> wants. </p><p>He doesn’t look like a teenager being forced into taking his friend to prom. </p><p>He looks… kind of excited. </p><p>Everyone in Bev and Ben’s living room is staring at Eddie as Richie approaches the top of the stairs on the screen. At the last minute, he turns back to the camera.</p><p>“You really think he’d want to—” he stops, rubbing at his chin, now free of the small amount of stubble from before. “You think he’ll want to go with me?”</p><p>His voice is so small. So worried and unsure, looking to his mother to reassure him that this is the right decision — that Eddie could possibly want him. Eddie feels his heart crack in half. </p><p>The box is still quiet.</p><p>Eddie can’t feel his fingers. </p><p>Went pushes in front of Richie at the last second, throwing up a finger for him to wait at the top. He descends the stairs with a happy call of “Guess who finally made it to—” when a flurry of teenagers pour into the foyer by the front door. </p><p>It’s Bill and Bev, Patty and Stan, and Eddie. </p><p>With Myra. </p><p>“Oh no,” Maggie whispers, panning to Richie, whose face has gone stark white, just as older Richie’s face did when Bev pulled the prom video out of the box. Went turns to the camera, waving his hands and making his way back up the stairs as the rest of the group happily exits out the front door, ready to face their prom together. </p><p>“Turn it off, Mags,” Went hisses, reaching toward the picture, as Maggie frantically whispers, “I’m trying, I’m <em> trying</em>.” </p><p>Richie is still there, crooked on the screen, and just before the picture cuts out for good, Eddie sees his wide, stunned eyes fill with tears. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Several minutes after the VCR has automatically shut off from disuse, they’re all sitting around in shock. No one seems to want to say anything to Eddie. No one wants to release Richie from his box of shame now that they would have to face him. </p><p>And Eddie certainly doesn’t know what the fuck to say. He’s more thrown than he’s ever been in his life. And he has no idea what any of this <em> means</em>. </p><p>Eddie remembers Myra showing up at the last minute, and how Richie had mysteriously disappeared. At the time, he assumed Richie wasn’t interested. That he had gone to play video games in his room, like they usually did on Friday nights. Now Eddie wonders what really happened. </p><p>He feels himself lifting out of his chair before he even makes the decision to do so, his body running on some panicked autopilot as he makes his way toward the box holding Richie. Wide, interested eyes watch him around the room, watch him walk over the ornamental carpet Bev got cheap at an estate sale, watch him tap lightly against the wood of the box in a pathetic knock. </p><p>“Rich?” Eddie says quietly, hoping Richie will answer.</p><p>He doesn’t. </p><p>Eddie licks his lips and starts to pry at the corner of the wood where Ben wedged it back together after Richie climbed in. He pushes through the sting at his fingers, through the painful pounding of his heart in his throat, through the screaming in his head telling him this is a <em> bad </em> idea. He has no idea what he’s going to do when he actually sees Richie; when he’s reminded of how Richie grew up to be the man he finally, fully, saw as someone he’s loved since he’s known what it meant. </p><p>The corner doesn’t come up easily, so Eddie tugs harder, and harder, and then it becomes desperate, his breath puffing heavily through his lungs, the devastated look on Richie’s face skipping through the cracks in his brain to bring him to the boiling point. He needs to see Richie <em> now</em>. He needs to know if Richie still feels that way: if he’s still that kid that wanted to take Eddie to the prom, who put on his father’s suit and bit the bullet to save Eddie’s night. </p><p>Eddie needs to— He just needs to see Richie. </p><p>Finally, the cover gives, and Eddie’s hands wrench it up painfully, but he ignores the splinters and discomfort and the worry of infection to keep pulling until he shoves the whole thing off and turns back to look down inside. </p><p>Richie’s sitting quietly, his mouth dropped open, all folded up, his knees pressed to his chest like he’s a kid. His hands are shaking where they’re clasped around his legs and he’s pale, his lips white, his eyes now boring up into Eddie’s like he’s afraid to even make a move. It’s the same expression again: the one he was wearing as the camera turned back on him, after he saw Eddie and Myra parade out to the prom together. </p><p>Eddie would do anything to wipe that look off his face. </p><p>He sticks out his hand.</p><p>Richie takes it. </p><p>The room is still eerily quiet as Richie lifts himself up to a stand. Eddie can feel every cell of blood flowing through his veins, every point of contact between them, every breath move through his lungs as Richie faces him, exhales, and looks him in the eye. Their hands are clasped together and Eddie can’t let go. He can’t think of what to do, or how to explain, or how to <em> ask</em>, so instead he brings his hands up to Richie’s face, sweeps at the space on Richie’s cheeks where his tears once fell, and leans forward into Richie. </p><p>With a brief pause, Eddie considers that maybe this isn’t the best way to go about things. But Richie’s so close, and Eddie’s head is crowded with images of him in that suit, him in front of that fireplace, him asking Eddie to rent an apartment, him buying furniture from IKEA, him drinking a beer and stretched out on their couch, him smiling and laughing every single time they’re together, and he hopes. He really fucking hopes. </p><p>So he pushes that extra distance and slots their mouths together. </p><p>Richie doesn’t respond to the shift, frozen and rigid, and Eddie almost pulls back, certain he’s made a mistake. But Eddie wants so badly to explain to him, somehow, how much he wants this. How he felt when he saw Richie put on that suit, and go to walk down the stairs, no idea if Eddie would even accept his invitation. He was so fucking <em> brave </em> , and Eddie’s been dancing around himself and his feelings for more than a year. For more than a <em> decade</em>, when he really thinks about it. </p><p>Eddie parts his lips against Richie’s, asking him to respond. He feels Richie’s breath between them, blown gently from his nose and collecting where they’re connected, and Eddie can smell and taste and <em> feel </em> him, and for one, glorious second, the pressure of Richie’s hands find Eddie’s hips and Richie lets him in. He turns his head and Eddie goes with it, and then he feels the wet slide of Richie’s tongue against his, and Eddie knows this is happening. The heat of Richie’s face seems to refract off of Eddie’s, so Eddie thumbs again over where Richie’s cheeks are flushing to try to curb it, and when it drags a whimper from Richie’s throat, Eddie quietly whines back, right into his mouth, and that’s when Richie steps back with a gasp.</p><p>Eddie pulls back too, breath tight in his chest, worried he’s pushed too far. Sure, Richie may have wanted him when they were kids, but now? He’s made it pretty clear that he’s not interested. That he’d rather rifle through men and keep Eddie as a friend and roommate. </p><p>Richie’s eyes are clenched shut when Eddie opens his. His lips are red from where Eddie was just hesitantly mouthing into him. It felt like two seconds. It felt like a lifetime. The wait feels longer. </p><p>But when Richie finally opens his eyes, he slaps a hand over his mouth. He vaults his legs over the side of the box, watching Eddie the entire time. And then he turns around, and runs out the door and into their own apartment across the hall. </p><p>Eddie blinks. Licks at his lips. Blinks again. Watches the door to his apartment — the one that Richie just slammed closed in an effort to get away. </p><p>He fucked it all up. </p><p>“Eddie,” Bev says, breaking the seal of everyone else’s silence as they watched everything unfold. “You should go after him.” </p><p>Eddie turns to her, eyes prying, because he doesn’t… he’s truly not sure. He doesn’t want to make this worse.</p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p>Bev presses her lips together in a tight line. She looks over to Ben, who slowly nods. </p><p>“Yeah,” she says, and Eddie’s out the door before he can think to stop himself. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As soon as Eddie opens the door, he sees Richie pacing their living room. He looks ready for a fight, or maybe like he’s about to throw up. Could be either, based on experience. </p><p>“Rich?” Eddie asks anyway, because he wants to get this started. He’s laid all his cards on the table, so to speak, and he wants to know if he’s flush or broke as a joke. </p><p>Richie keeps pacing, hands on his hips, eyes squinted and dangerous, looking very— well. Eddie. </p><p>Eddie moves slowly toward the counter, still feeling sluggish from a large meal, yet exhilarated and humiliated from rewatching his prom video and kissing the love of his life. Richie seems to sense the movement, because he stops dead center between the matching recliners he insisted on buying them and stares Eddie down. </p><p>Richie points out toward Ben and Bev’s apartment with a shaking finger. Eddie turns around to look before he actually says anything.</p><p>“What the fuck was <em> that</em>?”</p><p>Eddie pauses. “What was what?” </p><p>“That fucking—” Richie throws his hands in the air, digging up toward the heavens like he’s going to uncover the answers. “That fucking <em> kiss</em>. What was that?” </p><p>Eddie’s blood goes cold. Oh <em> no</em>. It was a mistake.</p><p>“I’m— Look, I’m sorry, I just assumed—”</p><p>“No, no, no, don’t, I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want to hear how you fucking— how much you <em> pity </em> me.” Richie’s face is red again. Eddie thinks he sees tears forming, and he’s once again reminded of the video. Of a young, vulnerable Richie standing at the top of the stairs of his childhood home, watching Eddie walk out on him. </p><p>For good. Eddie practically left for good that night. And now Richie thinks—</p><p>“You think I <em> pity </em> you?” </p><p>Richie laughs. It’s a sad, wilting sound. “You saw the fucking video.” </p><p>“Yeah, I did, Rich.” </p><p>Richie’s eyes shoot up to his hairline. “You saw how fucking pathetic I was, and then you decided to give poor ol’ Richie a kiss to soothe the pain gay little Richie felt at being left behind, right?”</p><p>Pain radiates through Eddie’s chest like waves crashing over a shore. It’s suffocating, that he can see <em> why </em> Richie thinks that, why Richie would have absolutely no cause to know that Eddie meant to put everything into that kiss. That the kiss meant… Eddie’s felt it all, too. Eddie felt it then, even if he didn’t know. </p><p>“Richie—”</p><p>“No,” Richie interrupts again, and Eddie is suddenly, frighteningly worried Richie will never let him explain. “No, don’t even— I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry, alright? I made my peace with it a long time ago.”</p><p>“P-peace?” </p><p>Richie nods, his eyes wild, damp pieces of hair stuck to his forehead. He’s always so sweaty.</p><p>“The fact that you didn’t feel the same way. That you couldn’t— that you didn’t feel the same way when we— we spent all of our time together, or fucked around at the arcade, or slept in the same goddamn bed and lived in the same house!” Richie’s arms are propelling in large circles as he recounts, as he practically yells, the sweat gathering under his arms as he spills his guts. “Or how you didn’t notice that almost every night after you fell asleep you would grab my fucking hand and hold on tight, like you— like you actually—”</p><p>Eddie swallows hard. “Richie, I had no idea—”</p><p>“Of course you didn’t.” He laughs again. Eddie feels it like a physical ache. “But I actually convinced myself, like some sort of <em> idiot</em>, that I had a chance, even before prom. I had this harebrained idea that we could run off together, that the rumors about Myra weren’t true. I thought maybe if she didn’t show up things could be different. And then my parents got my hopes up even more.” </p><p>Richie falls full-bodied into his recliner, spun to face the kitchen, where Eddie is frozen in shock.</p><p>“I even thought when we moved in together that I might still—” Richie laughs, to himself this time, swiping his hands over his face, like he’s scrubbing off the thoughts as they come. “But then I saw you with Pam, or whatever, and I don’t know why I even though I had a chance.” </p><p>Eddie’s brain suddenly kicks on, then spins fast into overdrive.</p><p>“Pam?? What the fuck are you talking about?” </p><p>Richie looks back up to him, eyes hooded. “Your company happy hour, a couple months after we moved in.”</p><p>It was the only time he’s ever gone out with his firm; most of his co-workers are dreadfully dull, straight, and have kids. Sometimes all three. It’s nothing he wants to hear about, especially not with the added effects of alcohol. Pam offered him a ride after one too many Long Island ice teas, and the thought of thirty more minutes of forced interaction seemed preferable to public transportation at night.</p><p>“Okay,” Eddie hedges. “But what about Pam? She gave me a ride home?” </p><p>“Yeah, and I saw you two in the doorway getting—” Richie makes some motion with his hands, tangling them together and shaking them around. It’s the vaguest shit Eddie’s ever seen. </p><p>“Getting <em> what</em>?” Eddie snaps after staring at Richie’s canoodling hands for thirty seconds too long. </p><p>“Getting busy!” </p><p>“Busy?? She walked me up to the doorway and said goodnight!” Eddie’s memory blinks. “The only reason I opened the door is because it was the week the hall light went out and I thought it was rude to chat in the dark. And then she wouldn't really... shut up.” </p><p>But Richie looks unconvinced. He’s rocking the chair back and forth incessantly, tapping his fingers at the leather armrests, threatening another dumb, infuriating laugh. Eddie’s a second away from throttling him, but he also wants to kiss him again, to straddle his big thighs in that chair and press into him, and therein lies the long and short of his feelings for Richie. </p><p>“You were obviously making out,” Richie says simply, and that’s it. Eddie’s throttling him. </p><p>“We were <em> not</em>,” Eddie replies, his head swimming. “And you’re one to talk, dipshit. I have to watch you parade men in here left and right and you can’t handle me— Me <em> nothing</em>, I didn’t make out with her!”</p><p>“Likely story,” Richie sighs in that voice Eddie recognizes as the one he uses when he knows he’s right. “I saw what I saw.”</p><p>“Well you’re an idiot!” </p><p>Richie jerks back against the leather. “Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah!”</p><p>“And why’s that?”</p><p>“Because I’m fucking gay! I’m fucking gay and I’m in love with you!”</p><p>Richie looks, not for the first time today, like he’s been slapped. But Eddie’s not letting this end here. They’re embroiled in a melting pot of misunderstandings and bitter, hurt feelings and Eddie is not living like this any longer. In this moment, deep in his rage, he doesn’t care if his feelings or his truth ruin everything — he just needs Richie to know. </p><p>“I knew as soon as you heard about my divorce and came to New York. And I should have known earlier. I should have known when you were the only one who could make me laugh so hard that Capri-Sun came out of my nose. Or when your family took me in and you let me sleep in your bed. Or when you were the first one to reach out after my divorce. Or a hundred million more times since we’ve moved in here and you’ve been so fucking kind to me I could hardly breathe.”</p><p>Eddie can’t breathe now, lost in a swirl of the truth, no way to stop it. Richie’s watching him blankly now, face gone pale again, and Eddie can’t decipher it, <em> again</em>, so he just keeps talking.</p><p>“I thought you couldn’t possibly feel the same way. Especially not with—” Eddie gestures toward the guest closet, toward the bathroom where Matthew crawled his way into their lives earlier in the day, but it doesn’t feel important anymore. “But when I saw the video I- I thought maybe you <em> did</em>. I thought maybe you still do.”</p><p>“But that was obviously. Stupid.” Eddie clenches his fists. Presses them against the tile of the counter. “I wouldn’t expect you to wait on me. Not after I left you like that.” </p><p>Richie’s eyes fall closed. Eddie lets his follow. </p><p>They both sit in the silence, intermittently punctured by the whir of the furnace starting up against the window. Richie’s chair is no longer awkwardly rocking, but Eddie is afraid to open his eyes and face whatever Richie looks like now. He’s flooded with the panic of finding a new place to live, a new set of friends, a whole new <em> life </em> now that he’s gone and ruined everything. Even if Richie was in love with him before, Eddie’s laid it all out now. And surely there’s no one that would accept it gladly.</p><p>Not even Richie. </p><p>Eddie’s willing away tears, fisting harder around the built-in cutting board brokenly poking from the edge of their counter, when he hears the squeak of Richie’s chair. </p><p>“Eds,” Richie says quietly, his voice cracking, and Eddie opens his eyes to Richie standing, hands bunched up in front of him. “I’d wait on you forever.” </p><p>It hits Eddie like a slab of concrete, but he shakes his head against the searing pain.</p><p>“You’re out there all the time— you’re meeting guys left and right—”</p><p>Richie scoffs, taking a step forward until he’s grabbing at the counter, too. “You think I give a shit about those guys? You think I’d be doing that if I knew I even had a chance with you?” </p><p>Eddie chews over his lip. Richie traces a slow pattern on the tile. </p><p>“It wasn’t pity,” Eddie whispers, ducking his head. He can still see when Richie leans forward, eyeing him gently. “I wanted to kiss you, I— I think I’ve always wanted to kiss you.” </p><p>Eddie looks up then, just in time to see Richie’s cheeks blush an adorable pink. His finger’s still swirling between them like a shy schoolgirl. It’s miles from where he was when Eddie walked in, raring and ready to go. </p><p>“Yeah?” he asks. Eddie nods. </p><p>Richie lets it linger. Shuffles his feet against the floor. </p><p>He’s still got his stupid turkey shirt on, and Eddie wants to latch his mouth over where it sticks to him: under the arms, at the rise of his tummy, against the small of his back. Eddie wants to taste him. He wants to take his time. But he waits on Richie.</p><p>“Would you have—" Richie’s throat catches halfway through the word, and Eddie leans in, like being closer will somehow help. Richie swallows and tries again. “Would you have said yes?”</p><p>“To?”</p><p>“To prom.”</p><p>“I mean, Myra showed up,” Eddie says. Richie rolls his eyes.</p><p>“I know that, fucksticks, we just watched it.” </p><p>“Well you were in a box, technically—”</p><p>“If Myra <em> hadn’t </em> shown up, would you have fucking gone to prom with me?”</p><p>“Is this how you would have asked?” Eddie grins, inching his hand closer to where Richie’s lays on the counter. “‘Cause it’s not very romantic.” </p><p>Richie laughs, deeper and truer than before. “Woulda been, if you’d seen me in that suit, coming down those stairs, ready to sweep you off your feet.” </p><p>“You kinda did,” Eddie says quickly, thinking of Richie in his office more than a year ago, hands full of papers, face full of hope, ready to usher them both into a new life together. “And the suit still, uh. Did the trick.”</p><p>“Ah, a delayed reaction.” Richie closes the gap between their hands, brushing a finger over Eddie’s thumb. Eddie’s whole body shivers. “Not what I was hoping for, but I guess it worked out for me eventually.” </p><p>Richie practically leers at him, increasingly cast in shadow as the sun ducks out completely from their big bay windows. Eddie feels like his whole body has gone up in flames, bathed in the sunlight no longer there. When Richie starts to round the corner of the counter slowly, Eddie worries he might go up in smoke before Richie’s able to reach him. </p><p>“I thought about it so much, you know,” Richie says quietly, closer with every passing second, their hands still touching over the tile. “What I would do if I ever got to take you to prom.” </p><p>“You th-thought about it?”</p><p>God, Eddie can’t get a fucking word out. It’s like Richie staring at him has zapped all the blood vessels out of his brain. But Richie’s just nodding, rounding on Eddie now, sidling up until they’re finally face to face. </p><p>“Yeah.” Richie ducks his head, rubs over his chin. “Yeah, I, uh. Thought about pictures together. About matching flowers or cor-the-whatever the fucks—”</p><p>Eddie grimaces. “Corsages?” Richie points at him. </p><p>“Those, yes.” They both smile. “You’d wear a green one, to match my dad’s suit. I’d wear a white one, probably, to match your whole <em>Boy Meets World</em> thing.”</p><p>Eddie taps at Richie’s chest, now so close, and Richie grabs at his hand. He stares down at it, almost with wonder. </p><p>“We’d dance, even though I fucking hate dancing. But you’d look so good I’d forget about my awkward limbs and do stupid shit just to see you smile.” </p><p>Eddie does smile, then. Richie slots their fingers together. </p><p>“You’d probably be Prom King or some shit like that, because you were so fucking smart—”</p><p>“That’s not how they decide Prom King, and I don’t think us going together would change that I <em> didn’t </em> get Prom King—”</p><p>“Okay, shush, I’m building a fantasy here, you can’t tell tiny Richie he can’t live his dreams,” Richie interrupts, shaking at where their hands are conjoined, and Eddie calms himself in the wake of Richie’s easy, insistent voice. </p><p>“Go ahead,” Eddie tells him, and Richie nods, shutting his eyes, inching forward until Eddie is crowded between the counter and the solid line of Richie’s chest. He can feel their frantic, matching heartbeats and he watches Richie’s mouth. Richie watches him right back. </p><p>“I’d rent a hotel room, because my parents probably would have paid for it.”</p><p>Eddie laughs. It’s true. The Toziers would have been the most supportive, had Richie and Eddie actually dated. Hell, they were the ones pushing Richie to take Eddie to prom in the first place. God, if this actually happens, they’ll be so fucking excited. But then Eddie feels like he’s getting ahead of himself. Even with Richie smiling down at him and recounting how exactly he would have loved prom night to go. In his <em> dreams</em>. </p><p>Richie ducks his head. Eddie wants to press a finger to his chin, but Richie’s focused on the weaving way their hands fit. </p><p>“I’d rent a hotel and I’d take you there for the night, just the two of us,” Richie says. His throat works at something. He licks his lips. “I’d tell you I fucking love you. That I’ve loved you since we were kids.”</p><p>Eddie thinks back on Richie’s face in the video. Richie standing at the top of the stairs. Richie sweeping a hand through his hair. Richie suited up in green and white. </p><p>Richie making him laugh. Richie <em> loving </em> him. Even then. </p><p>“That every single night you’ve spent in my bed has been a fucking dream, but I’d love to make it a reality. I’d tell you all sort of cheesy shit, and I’d kiss you, I’d kiss you and kiss you because I never thought I’d be able to, and I’d lay you down on the bed and kiss you all over, too, and watch you open up for me like I always wanted you to.” </p><p>It’s like their sides are flipped from before — Richie in the driver’s seat, years of pent up realizations and acknowledgments flooding him as he peers down at Eddie, clueless and wanting, waiting for something to happen, just something to—</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>, I wanted you,” Richie whispers into Eddie’s mouth, and that’s it, Eddie plunges deep and hard, because fuck the driver’s seat: he’s not going to be a passive passenger in his own life anymore. He’s close to biting in his intensity to kiss Richie silly and forever, to make sure he knows like he didn’t know before, and now that they’ve both said it, Eddie’s even more willing and even more desperate. </p><p>This time, Eddie pours every inch of himself into this kiss, and this time, Richie gathers it all up and gives it right back. </p><p>It feels right, electric through his whole body, and not because Richie is trying to grab him everywhere all at once. He feels heat rushing his veins, pooling between his legs, spreading through his abdomen and up into his cheeks, where Richie is thumbing across his jawbone. Richie’s hands hold him close, slide around to the small of his back to keep him. And Eddie wants. He wants so badly and now he <em> has </em> it, now he knows Richie wants this, too, that he’s not entertaining the idea to make Eddie feel better. </p><p>Richie gasps into it then, and Eddie melts into the counter. He wraps his arms quickly around Richie’s neck, clinging for dear life, lest his knees really give out. Richie responds in kind, thumbing deep into the divots of Eddie’s hips as he pulls him closer. </p><p>Eddie’s never been kissed like this in his life. Breathless and aching and hot and everything he’s ever wanted. Imagining it was one thing — on his bad days, when Richie would leave the apartment and Eddie couldn’t hold off, had to wrap a warm hand around himself and think about Richie pushing him against a wall, pressing him into the bed, holding him close and giving him what he wanted. But now they’re straining at each other, hard and insistent, and Eddie’s cock is getting there too, just at the feel of Richie, just at the thought of Richie wanting to open him up and have him. </p><p>“You wanted this too?” Richie pulls back to ask, eyes searching Eddie’s face as his hands roam Eddie’s arms. </p><p>Eddie nods, wetting his lips and letting Richie watch. </p><p>“It’s all I’ve thought about for a fucking year.” </p><p>Richie sags, whistling through his teeth, pressing their foreheads together. Eddie rocks against him in delight, until Richie noses at his cheek, kissing quick and small at the corner of his lips. </p><p>“We should compare notes,” he says, a rumble in his chest, so Eddie fists hard into the front of his stupid turkey shirt and pushes him into one of the giant recliners. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“We’re not seriously going to fuck in this chair, are we?” Richie asks after the third time Eddie has to re-situate himself on his lap to avoid toppling backward. Or forward. Or off the side.</p><p>Eddie heaves a fevered sigh as Richie licks over a forming hickey he’s already made on Eddie’s collarbone. </p><p>“Okay, maybe this was a bad idea,” he says, pressing up on his knees to lever out backwards and off Richie’s lap. He offers Richie a hand up, not because he needs it, but because Eddie really wants to keep touching him. “I’ve just always <em> imagined </em> it would be hot, but I guess reality and fantasy are two— <em> oof</em>—”</p><p>Richie takes the offered hand, twisting Eddie around and pulling him into his lap, this time ass to front. Eddie lands with an awkward plop, and means to complain about being manhandled, when Richie’s arms come around his waist to pin him closer. </p><p>“You <em> fantasized </em>about this, Eds?” He shifts his hips, and Eddie feels the hard press of Richie’s cock through their pants. </p><p>Eddie tenses against him. He thinks of Richie digging his hands up the back of his shirt, following the bumpy line of Eddie’s spine, tonguing into his mouth so far Eddie wondered if his dick would feel just as heavy and warm inside.</p><p>“Yeah, I, uh—”</p><p>“I have, too.” Richie’s mouth is pressed right to the shell of Eddie’s ear, breath hot against his skin, doing that sexy-low voice again, and Eddie always thought Richie’s regular, rather nasally voice was hot, but this is on a new level that’s quickly fattening up Eddie’s cock. And the thought of Richie thinking of the two of them—</p><p>“What did you think about?” Eddie asks, because that was the deal, after all. They just shelved it for a little while, in favor of making out like teenagers. </p><p>Richie hums in his ear, then trails his teeth down the side of Eddie’s neck and presses a kiss right where it meets his shoulder. When Eddie jerks under his touch, Richie full on <em> moans</em>. The sound of it shoots straight to Eddie’s dick. He pours sweat into his Thanksgiving cardigan, drunk on the luxurious thrill of getting Richie to make <em> noise</em>. </p><p>“I thought about sucking your cock,” Eddie blurts. </p><p>Richie goes still, but huffs out an, “Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah, uh, kind of a lot,” Eddie adds, because he’s thought about it what feels like a million times. When Richie was playing video games or watching television or eating a whole bag of Rollo’s in his boxers (those fucking <em> boxers</em>) and Eddie would think of how easy it would be to slide to his knees, to pull down the slack waistband and fit his mouth around the head, or lick up the sides, or hold it against his tongue while Richie kept doing whatever he was doing because Eddie just wanted him to <em> feel good</em>, even if he did nothing in return—</p><p>“Fuck, Eds, I can’t even handle this,” Richie says, like he’s in Eddie’s head. His hips are kicking up now, fitting the shape of his cock between Eddie’s cheeks, so Eddie grinds down harder, and Richie’s breath catches crooked in his chest. If it weren’t for Richie’s arms around his waist Eddie would worry Richie is about to buck him off the chair like he’s riding a bronco. </p><p>“I barely— <em> ah</em>—” Richie hits a good spot, which is to say any spot at all, his hands now rubbing up and down the length of Eddie’s thighs. “I barely said anything.” </p><p>“I know, I know, but you <em> thinking </em> about it is just, like.” Eddie feels another puff of air against the back of his neck. “It’s a lot.” </p><p>Eddie feels Richie bury his nose behind his ear and breathe in deep, smelling him, and then it’s Eddie who can’t handle it. He can’t believe Richie’s thought about this, too. That Richie, who’s had so many hot guys in his room Eddie’s lost count, could be hard just from kissing him, from having him on his lap. From <em> thinking </em> about letting Eddie suck his dick. </p><p>Richie wraps fingers around Eddie’s thighs, gripping tight, and Eddie shudders out a breath. He wishes their clothes would dissolve so Richie could fuck up into him right now, but that’s skipping about, oh, fifteen steps on their way there. Eddie’s only had his own fingers inside of him, and he’s not opposed; in fact, quite the opposite. Riding Richie in this chair also made a frequent appearance in his fantasies. </p><p>“You said you wanted to open me up,” Eddie whispers, his head falling back against Richie’s shoulder. “Tell- tell me how.” </p><p>Embarrassment floods him, but he wants to know what Richie thought about. He wants to know how much Richie wanted him. Then. Now. Anything. </p><p>Richie groans, his hips setting a circular motion that Eddie follows easily. “Wanted to lay you out.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie encourages. The tips of his fingers are sweating. Is that even possible? </p><p>“Take off that fucking suit piece by piece, spread you out and see how good you looked for me.” </p><p>Eddie whimpers. “Rich.”</p><p>Richie grabs at his hips, pulling him down quicker against his lap. Richie’s full-on dry humping him now, and Eddie wants more, but can’t imagine peeling himself away from Richie’s crooked rhythm and panting words to take this anywhere else.</p><p>“Turn you onto your stomach and lick into you.”</p><p>All the breath shoots out of Eddie in a flat second. “You wanted to—”</p><p>“Fuck, fuck, <em> yes</em>,” Richie says, and Eddie squirms, thinking of Richie’s tongue right at the center of him, pressing him down into the bed with his big hands. “I used to think about it all the time, how you would taste, flipping you over in my tiny little twin bed and spreading you open with my hands.” </p><p>Eddie laughs, going lax as Richie keeps humping up against him. “I thought we were in a hotel.” </p><p>“Shit,” Richie huffs with his own laugh, “I know, I just wanted to touch you so badly back then. Every single night.” </p><p>“Do it now,” Eddie tells him. “I’d let you now. I probably would’ve let you then.”</p><p>Richie practically vaults them both out of the chair, and Eddie catches himself at the edge of the counter, dick tenting his pants, the echo of Richie’s own erection still stinging between his legs. </p><p>“I need a bed, let’s go,” Richie says, and drags Eddie by the hand, giggling the whole way. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“<em>Wow</em>,” Richie says, as soon as they’re through the doorway to his room. </p><p>Eddie unlatches himself from where he’s been sucking a spot onto Richie’s neck, and also trying to get a hand down his pants, to look around. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>Richie sweeps an arm out, gesturing at his bed, his Garfield poster, his cluttered closet full of large t-shirts. </p><p>“The Toziers really went all out. This must be a five-star hotel.” </p><p>“Oh my <em> god</em>,” Eddie sighs, his head thunking into the center of Richie’s chest. “You are such a dork.” </p><p>“I’m keeping the fantasy alive, Eds! We wouldn’t want the magic to die now that we’re finally together.” Richie shakes him around the hips, pressing gently, leading him to the edge of the bed. The speed of Eddie’s heart kicks up a few notches. </p><p>“That was quick. It’s been what—” Eddie checks his non-existent watch. “Twenty minutes?” </p><p>Richie laughs. “Hey, it’s our prom night. Don’t get sassy.” </p><p>Eddie presses them together again, flush at their chests. He licks into Richie’s mouth to hide how much he likes pretending.  </p><p>Honestly, Eddie does feel a little like he’s in high school again. Along with the fledgling self-confidence and concerns about measuring up to Richie’s expectations, Eddie’s also lacking a breadth of experience. He and Myra were each other’s first times, and until his divorce, that fact made him rather proud. After his divorce, he was spat out into the world knowing nothing about touching other men, and only slightly more about touching women. Thinking about— <em> fantasizing </em> about Richie’s hands or mouth or cock was always rather abstract. </p><p>Now that Eddie can feel said hands, and mouth, and the outline of the cock through a layer of denim, it all seems a bit more… real. And scary as hell. And fucking <em> exciting</em>. </p><p>He moves out of Riche’s hold to sit down at the edge of the bed. Richie watches him the whole way, his eyes shining in the sliver of moonlight that leaks through his bedroom window. Eddie gulps down some air. He presses a hand to the bulge in his pants. </p><p>Richie tips his head back, squeezing his eyes shut, like he can’t watch. He slaps a hand over his face and spreads his fingers, just peeking through, and it makes Eddie’s stomach bubble with affection. </p><p>“You gonna join me or—” Eddie’s fingers curl over the head of his cock through his pants. </p><p>Richie shifts his feet, his hands cupping frantic around the back of his neck. A hysterical laugh claws its way out of him. </p><p>“I don’t, uh. I’m really fuckin’ nervous, man.” </p><p>Eddie stops, sitting up. “What? Why?” </p><p>“I wanna- uh.” Richie holds in a breath. Lets it out slowly. A smile creeps onto his face, and Eddie’s brain fizzles. “Just wanna make prom memorable for you, Eds.” </p><p>Eddie bites at the inside of his cheek. His whole body is vibrating with need, so he strips off his shirt and tosses it onto the floor. </p><p>“Get over here, then.” </p><p>Richie’s eyebrows go wobbly, up and down in a flash over his forehead. “Take off your pants.” </p><p>Eddie’s hand stills. </p><p>Richie’s eyes are hungry, his hands twitching at his sides like he wants to touch. He was all over Eddie in the kitchen, in the recliner, against the entertainment center on the way to the bedroom. But now he keeps his distance: watching Eddie shed his pants until he’s tenting his briefs like an eager teenager. The prom act isn’t hard to keep up, as it turns out. </p><p>Blessedly, Richie’s clothes come off next. His turkey shirt, his jeans, his underwear. His cock bobs as he pulls out of them, a crude shadow in the dim light. Eddie grabs at his own to combat the deep pang in his chest at the sight and beckons him closer so he can really see. And taste, if Richie lets him. </p><p>But Richie stops, a hand now wrapped around the base of his cock. For a minute, Eddie thinks Richie’s going to feed it right between his lips. Hold him at the chin and fuck his face. Eddie’s mouth waters. But Richie hisses, swiping a thumb over the slit, where a bead of pre-come is already leaking. Eddie licks his lips. </p><p>“Turn around,” Richie says, flicking his hand at the length of the bed. “Let me get my mouth on you.” </p><p>Eddie scoffs but turns around, up on his knees until Richie moves around the bed to grab a pillow. He shoves it at Eddie’s chest.</p><p>“Put this under your hips.” </p><p>Eddie stares at it. “My–” It dawns on him far too late. “Oh, <em> fuck</em>.” </p><p>Richie steals it from him, dropping it onto the mattress so Eddie can drape himself down on top of it, flat on his stomach but for the angle of his hips. He wiggles them against the pillow to grind some pressure into his cock. Richie hums. </p><p>“You look like a fucking wet dream.” Eddie feels a warm hand sweep down the curve of his spine. He shivers under the touch. “Leaking into your undies for me.” </p><p>Richie’s finger curves into the waistband. He pulls slowly, the band squeezing at the swell of Eddie’s ass until they’re wrapped around his thighs. They twitch to spread open, aching to get Richie’s mouth on him. No one’s ever eaten him out before: Myra cringed at the concept of anything ass-related and Eddie pretended to sympathize. Life certainly would have been different if <em> this </em> is how his prom really ended, instead of drive-thru Taco Bell and a shitty night’s sleep on Myra’s parents’ basement pull-out couch. </p><p>“Shit,” Richie curses quietly behind him, hands pawing at his ass. Eddie presses into the pillow and tries to relax. “You look so fucking good.” </p><p>“You said that.” He feels a warm, light breath of air against his hole.</p><p>“I can’t wait to make you feel good,” Richie says back. Eddie bites down on a whine, then grabs the other pillow to drown any that might pour out. He’s not used to Richie using this voice, being this sweet, taking his damn time.</p><p>A tongue laves over him gently, softly, and no pillow in the world could muffle Eddie’s desperate moan. “Hnnnf, <em> Rich</em>.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Richie breathes into him, swirling at the center of him, where Eddie must be hot against his tongue. “You taste amazing.” </p><p>It’s humiliating, in a way, having a <em> taste</em>, but something about the way Richie says it, fawning with adoration, his voice high and tight in awe makes Eddie want to melt into the sheets. Richie works him until he’s dripping: saliva around his hole and pre-come into Richie’s pillow. He rocks his hips forward as Richie presses him down. One hand comes to hold at the small of his back, and he hisses at the added stimulation. </p><p>“I can’t- <em> hah</em>- I can’t believe you woulda- that you even <em> thought—</em>” Eddie tries to say, tries to ask how Richie even <em> knew </em> about something like this when he was in high school. Richie pulls off with a curious slurp.</p><p>“Coulda woulda <em> huh</em>?” He lightly taps at Eddie’s ass cheek. Eddie can feel it jiggle; Richie must see it, because he groans, slicking his thumb through the wetness and pressing it to Eddie’s rim. </p><p>“Fuck, yes, please,” Eddie pleads, his last train of thought forgotten in favor of getting something inside of him bigger than the tip of Richie’s tongue. Hopefully, eventually, even Richie’s big cock, bobbing and smearing against Eddie’s calf while Richie eats him into the bed. </p><p>The press of Richie’s thumb is blunt, but Eddie knows he can take it. He <em> wants </em> to take it, so he tries to lift his hips to get it inside him. </p><p>“Eds, <em> fuck</em>,” Richie groans, kitten licking at his hole. “You want it?” </p><p>“Yeah, yes, yes.” </p><p>“I’m too fucking hard for this, you gotta—” Richie taps at Eddie’s hips. “Lift up, get on your hands and knees.” </p><p>A bolt of electricity slams through Eddie’s stomach. He pulls his knees under him, throwing the pillow out of the way and peeking back to see Richie, and that stuns him even more. A panting, spit-covered mess with a huge erection (like, seriously, what the <em> fuck</em>, Eddie has seen horses less endowed than this fuckin’ guy), fucking his own fist as he watches Eddie get into position for… something. </p><p>God, Eddie’s just along for the fucking ride at this point. And it doesn’t even scare him. Sometimes being a passenger is thrilling: as long as you trust the driver. </p><p>Richie comes up behind him again, fitting his cock in the space against Eddie’s hole. </p><p>Eddie gasps at the sensation, hot and solid, like he’s being branded. “Holy <em> shit</em>, are you—” </p><p>“No, no, <em> fuck</em>, just wanna feel you.”</p><p>“You could, I’d let you,” Eddie mumbles quietly, his head dangling between his arms as Richie rocks forward. He wants it <em> inside </em> him. Wants to know what it feels like fucking into him, stretching him wide open, splitting him where he wants it. Richie laughs, and Eddie feels it shiver through his shoulder blades. </p><p>“Not tonight, baby,” Richie gentles, and Eddie’s stomach drops. He moans, and <em> fuck</em>, when did he get so fucking easy? “I’m not gonna deflower you on your prom night, that’s so fuckin’ cliche.” </p><p>“Fuck,” Eddie curses. Richie spreads palms around the meat of Eddie’s ass. “Fuck you.” </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, go ahead, try to- <em> unf</em>- <em> ugh </em> - peer pressure me, man, it’s not gonna work.” He presses Eddie’s cheeks together around his cock and <em> slides </em> forward. Eddie’s hole flutters. “I’ve been to every fucking assembly in the book.” </p><p>“That’s a lie,” Eddie hisses. Even on the edge of begging for Richie’s cock, he can still ardently disagree. “You and Bev always smoked-<em> fuck</em>, out back- oh my god, Richie, are you—”</p><p>Richie grunts, his speed kicking up. “Am I what?” </p><p>Eddie can feel him leaking, can feel him wet and sliding effortlessly. He can feel every ridge and vein of Richie’s cock as Richie fucks against him again and again; and the pressure of Richie’s hands squeezing around him, <em> into </em> him is stirring up his guts, but now how he <em> wants </em>.</p><p>“Fuck, <em> Richie—</em>”</p><p>“Say it,” Richie growls, and Eddie feels like his chest cracks in half from need. </p><p>“Fuck me, please, please put it in me,” Eddie pants and Richie’s rhythm stutters as he cries out. His fingers dig a punishing stake into Eddie’s skin as he humps at Eddie’s ass, fucking his cock over and over and <em> over </em> Eddie’s hole as Eddie pushes back into it. </p><p>“Eds, <em> oh</em>, Eddie, <em> fuuuuuck</em>," Richie groans, the tip of his dick now pressed to the small of Eddie’s back. “I’m coming on you, <em> fuck—</em>”</p><p>Eddie wants to scream. “Touch me, can you at least fucking touch me?”</p><p>He feels as Richie comes in lines against his skin, but Richie’s brain must be mush, because instead of reaching around to Eddie’s cock, like he <em> meant</em>, Richie pushes a finger through the mess on Eddie’s back and drags it down to his hole. </p><p>“Shit, Eds, that looks so slutty,” Richie says. He rubs at Eddie’s rim, sensitive and desperate, but doesn’t push in. Eddie keens, out of his mind with arousal. Finally giving in, he shoves a hand between his legs to grab at his cock. But then Richie’s sticky hands are back on him. </p><p>Richie flips him over in one smooth move, but Eddie’s cock is so hard it’s almost painful, bouncing against his abs. Richie leans down to pull it into his mouth, and only then does Eddie see how wild his eyes are. </p><p>They’re blown and dark and seared right into Eddie’s, watching Eddie watch <em> him </em> suck his cock down to the back of his throat. And Eddie hasn’t been on the receiving end of many blowjobs, but he knows it’s not what he wants right now. </p><p>“Richie.” Eddie pats at Richie’s head, runs a hand over his cheek to feel the shape of his dick. He moans when Richie’s eyes roll back. “Richie, get back up here.” </p><p>Thankfully, he comes easy. And—</p><p>“You’re still hard,” Eddie gasps when he feels Richie press into him. He grinds, rolling their cocks between their stomachs deliciously, and Eddie thinks maybe not being fucked isn’t the worst thing that could happen. This feels… really nice. Warm and comfortable and close with a better view of Richie’s face and eyes and lips and- and <em> shoulders</em>. </p><p>Richie, for his part, also seems surprised at the happy turn of events. “God, Eds, you drive me fucking crazy and you haven’t even come.” </p><p>Eddie grunts. “Wanted to get fucked, but somebody was having a moment.” He swirls his hips. He can still feel Richie’s come dripping off his dick, the nasty bastard. </p><p>“Wanna get you off now.”</p><p>Eddie lifts up to lick into Richie’s mouth, to taste himself, because he’s a nasty bastard, too. </p><p>Richie breaks away, breathless, heaving up until he’s sitting back on his heels, Eddie’s thighs covering his own. He stares down at Eddie’s naked body, at their cocks pressed together, at the line of come and pre-come smeared over Eddie’s stomach. He braces his hands around Eddie’s ankles, one for each, and pulls until they’re up over his right shoulder, clasped together in his big palms. </p><p>“Richie,” Eddie says quietly, but Richie’s got a fire in his eyes, and Eddie’s never seen him like this. So zoned in, so focused on one thing. </p><p>And that one thing is Eddie. </p><p>“Probably would’ve fucked you this way anyway, right?” Richie asks, and Eddie nods, because he has no idea what he’s talking about, but their cocks are slotted together perfectly in the space between Eddie’s thighs, and when Eddie <em> clenches </em> he sees stars. </p><p>“Wha-huh?”</p><p>“Like this,” Richie says, gliding forward, curving his back so he crowds over Eddie’s whole body in a thrust forward. “Just us, rubbing off against each other like teenagers.” </p><p>“<em>Oh</em>.” </p><p>Eddie’s forced up the bed with every buck of their bodies together. The headboard bangs heavily against the wall, but Eddie can’t be reminded of what he’s heard coming from Richie’s bedroom on any other night when he’s so close to coming himself. Richie’s fat dick is pressing down against his. Richie’s arms are wrapped around his legs, holding him up. Richie’s sweat is dripping, his panting louder than anything Eddie’s ever heard, ringing in his ears like a bell. </p><p>“Eddie, <em> fuck</em>, you feel so good,” Richie rambles, and Eddie’s close- he’s so fucking close-</p><p>“I’m—”</p><p>“I’m gonna come again, holy shit, you’re going to make me come again,” Richie whines, the slight jiggle in his belly ramping up as he rocks harder and harder before he bursts. </p><p>Eddie still beats him to the punch, coming long and hard between them. He spurts onto Richie’s chest, onto the dark, thatched hair that covers it, and down onto his own stomach until Richie starts to follow. Richie’s body jerks like it was unexpected, but his eyes stay on Eddie, watching Eddie come down just as he peaks, staring between them so he can see Eddie fuck against his cock until he’s wrung dry. Eddie doesn’t want it to end; he doesn’t want Richie to ever stop looking at him like this. Mouth dropped open, eyes shining like he’s amazed. </p><p>Eddie presses a hand to the middle of Richie’s chest when they’ve calmed, and Richie smiles before rolling against Eddie’s side on the bed. </p><p>“Was it everything you dreamed of your prom night?” he asks, breathless. Eddie laughs. </p><p>“It was better than the actual one, I can tell you that for sure.” </p><p>Richie turns to face him, licking at his lips. Eddie wants to lick them back, so he buries his face in Richie’s neck. </p><p>“We’re just making dreams come true over here at Casa Tozier–” </p><p>“It’s not just <em> your </em> Casa, moron,” Eddie says, gnawing at the skin on Richie’s neck.</p><p>Richie is undeterred. “And that–” </p><p>“Don’t even say it,” Eddie warns.</p><p>“–is the <em> true </em> meaning of Thanksgiving.”</p><p>“Don’t make me do a walk of shame in my own apartment, Rich,” Eddie says, taking his own turn at the box of tissues. </p><p>Richie slaps at his chest, reeling him in for a kiss that lasts a little too long. When he pulls back, his chest rumbles in a hum.</p><p>“You can’t fool me,” Richie says, tracing a line down Eddie’s middle, still covered in a thin layer of sweat. “You’re dying to spend the night, Kaspbrak.”</p><p>Eddie cuddles into the space against Richie’s chest, but doesn’t say a word. </p><p>Richie slings an arm around his shoulders, and Eddie stares at the wall that separates their bedrooms.</p><p>Before he falls asleep, he grabs Richie’s hand in his and holds on tight. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He wakes up to the smell of coffee, but no Richie. </p><p>Confused, well-fucked and worried it was all a dream, Eddie stumbles out of Richie’s room to find Richie clattering at something in the kitchen cabinets. </p><p>“Mmmhuh?” he mumbles, so thrown by the sight of Richie awake, dressed, and <em> showered </em> that he figures it probably <em> is </em> a dream. He pinches hard at the skin of his arm but hisses when all it does is fucking sting. He did come out of Richie’s room, after all. Unless it was a <em> wet </em> dream, and he somehow sleep-walked his way into Richie’s bedroom, and Richie woke up to find him there, freaked out and immediately left to busy himself in the kitchen, but that doesn’t–</p><p>“Eddie, darling, pull up a stool,” Richie says with a flourish, popping up from the ground to wave at the counter. He’s flush and radiant, a spatula in one hand and a cleaning rag in the other. He, too, looks rather satisfied. </p><p>So… not a dream. </p><p>Eddie squints to see an empty coffee cup and a glazed doughnut on a plate in front of where he usually sits. Richie fills the cup as he approaches, dropping his spatula to reach for Eddie’s hand. </p><p>“Your post-Thanksgiving breakfast, m’dear.” He kisses at Eddie’s knuckles. “Post-coital, too, thanks to <em> yours </em> truly.”</p><p>Eddie shakes him off, but his throat feels tight and his head feels fuzzy when Richie cackles his way across the kitchen. </p><p>The doughnut is indulgent and gooey, the coffee dark and warm, and Richie in plain white tee and bare arms is the cherry on top of the sundae. Eddie tries to remember Richie ever making breakfast for a guy the morning after, even just coffee and doughnuts, and comes up blissfully blank. It’s not a competition.</p><p>But he’s definitely the winner. </p><p>“I can’t believe you woke up <em> early </em>for this,” Eddie says, sipping at his already half-drunk coffee. Richie refills it quickly.</p><p>“Yeah, well, I owed you after last night.” Eddie expects him to wink, or maybe a casual leer, but instead his brows pinch together. “And the night before.” </p><p>He turns to the other side of the counter, and for a moment Eddie is too distracted by the flex of his shoulders to realize Richie’s placed something right in front of his plate.</p><p>“It’s not exactly like your grandma’s,” Richie says fast, pointing at the–</p><p>“It’s a donkey,” Eddie says, simply. </p><p>“A donkey <em> napkin holder</em>, Eds.” </p><p>“Not <em> exactly </em> like my grandma’s?” Eddie stares at it. It stares back at him with one jagged eye. And a chipped leg. Actually, the other might be missing. In short, it’s a mess. “It’s nothing like my grandma’s. It’s a fucking donkey.” </p><p>Richie throws his arms up. “Well it’s not like there’s a market for this shit, dude.”</p><p>“Then where the fuck did you–” The goddamn thing is <em> sticky </em> when Eddie picks it up. “Oh my fucking god, where did you get it?”</p><p>Richie yanks it back, holding it protectively against his chest, cradling it like an injured baby bird that Eddie just swatted out of the sky. “An antique shop!” </p><p>Eddie checks the clock. “At eight in the morning? The <em> day </em> after Thanksgiving?” </p><p>Richie’s face falls. “Okay, it was a guy on the street.” </p><p>“We’re throwing that away.” Eddie reaches a hand out, but Richie hoists it above his head. </p><p>“No,” he yelps like a child, and Eddie considers jumping over the counter to tackle him to the ground. Tangling their legs together, pressing up Richie’s shirt to thumb over his nipples, or mouth over his chest hair– “This thing has sentimental value to me now, you can’t fucking have it.” </p><p>Richie sticks out his tongue, so Eddie uses his hand to fist at his shirt instead, forcing him into a hard, awkward kiss. When he pulls back, Richie’s eyes are wide; the sticky, orange-tinted donkey is still nestled between his pecs.</p><p>“Thank you,” Eddie hears himself say. Richie emits some sort of squeak, like he meant to laugh, or maybe cry, and it got caught. He clears his throat, shaking his head like a dog, but his lip still wobbles under Eddie’s gaze. It’s so fucking cute Eddie feels like he might explode. After the video, and last night, and now… now <em> this</em>? </p><p>The anger and resentment of yesterday, of the last <em> year</em>, feels like ancient history. Richie’s always been there to catch Eddie when he falls, even if he doesn’t know it. Even if Richie’s the one that caused the pain. He’s there to make Eddie laugh, to make Eddie feel good. To illegally buy him ridiculous, disgusting novelty items and force him into cheesy couple costumes. </p><p>And Eddie… Eddie’s working on believing he gives Richie some of that back. But he trusts Richie. And his heart’s usually in the right place. </p><p>Eddie pecks at Richie’s mouth again for posterity, but also because he can. He points back down at the donkey in his hands. </p><p>“You better clean that thing <em> extensively </em> if you wanna keep it in the kitchen. Where we <em> eat</em>.” </p><p>Richie’s face lights up. He licks over where Eddie’s lips just pressed into his. </p><p>“Right,” Richie says, breaking from his hold and running toward the bathroom.</p><p>“And use the towels from the guest closet,” Eddie calls after him. He picks up the last piece of doughnut and grins at the brand new coffee maker. “We won’t need them until your mom visits for Christmas.” </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks again to the GC and the server and to all the kitschy grandma items that keep my plots going. </p><p>There is now <a href="https://twitter.com/TheArtSharki/status/1277043672522031109?s=20">ART for this fic</a> from the wonderful <a href="https://twitter.com/TheArtSharki?s=20">Sharki</a> if you would like a clear-cut picture of how devastated and adorable Richie was at the top of them steps. </p><p>Please leave me a comment if you're able, and as always, find me on Tumblr at <a href="https://tinyangryeddie.tumblr.com/">tinyangryeddie</a> or Twitter, where I'm <a href="https://twitter.com/camerasparring">camerasparring</a>!</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
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